


when the wolf comes home

by downsidealaska



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, M/M, Michael got kidnapped, Ryan rescued him, Slow Burn, sorry about that, they fall in luv slowly and then gently kiss, this is also from a 2015 RP I had so its written Weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 13:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10720554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downsidealaska/pseuds/downsidealaska
Summary: Michael has been beaten and battered and kicked into the dirt, but then his guardian angel is there. Ryan, the Vagabond, the scourge of Los Santos, with a large pair of angel wings on his back.





	1. homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> so this is a transcript of an RP i had from like, 2015, and i'm not exactly sure the ethical implications of posting it? but it's good, and even if the format is a little fucky, i think it's worth more to post than to keep in my drafts forever. p.s. title is a lyric from Up The Wolves by The Mountain Goats.

Michael always figured he was probably going to end up kicking the bucket at an early age, and even more likely during a job, but he never quite imagined it being so drawn out. As is with most things involving Michael, he always thought a particularly impressive blast of fire and sound would be the way.

Weeks of prolonged torture, though, was definitely not on the Jones' mind when he considered his own inevitable mortality. Despite that, here he is, trapped by heavy shackles and stupidly thick chains to the wall behind him as he sits in his shitty, makeshift holding cell. His shirt is ripped and bloodstained, and his body is peppered with painful, blood-speckled bruises, and he looks another few beatings away from falling asleep and failing to wake back up again.  

Despite that, Michael's eyes, surrounded by shadows and exhaustion, still flicker with the embers of his ever-burning, almost manic anger. He's not told his captors jack fucking shit about the Crew, despite how much they've demanded information and tried torturing it out of him. He's a loyal, determined fucker, and he's sporting with pride the newest bruise he attained for spitting a mixture of blood and saliva at his abuser. 

It did gain him another few days alone with no food, though (not that he was getting gourmet meals anyways, but still). So, Michael sits slumped against the wall he's been chained against for longer than he cares to think about. His wrists are raw and bloodied from his struggles, which he gave up a week or so back. Now he just waits for a death he's sure will come, a hot feeling of pride at his keeping his best friends burning away at his gut.

Ryan had been surveying the compound from afar for almost a week, learning guard patterns, gate codes, anything he could that might help. He had tracked Michael down to this factory. According to the city it was a "powdered sugar warehouse", but Ryan knew better. From combing the streets, he had learned that this was the main base of the South Streets, a minor Los Santos clique with a major grudge against the Fake AH boys for muscling in on their territory.  

Ryan clicked the scope on his rifle twice, taking one final sweep of the compound. They'll regret provoking us, Geoff had said, the fuckers have messed up big time. Sic the Vagabond on them, see how they like that. An eye for an eye, motherfuckers. Oh, but Ryan intended on taking more than just an eye. 

He slid the vinyl mask over his face, its familiar feeling only serving to fuel his anger. He was Ryan no more, now he was the Vagabond. Throwing the rifle over his shoulder, he slid down the embankment and onto the darkened factory road. Hopping the fence was easy, there wasn't even any barbed wire. The courtyard guards were just as easy. You'd be surprised how easily a neck can snap.

 As he slunk into the interior of the facility, he turned a corner and waited. 11:16, a guard will be by in 3, 2, 1...  A second later, he had the silenced barrel of his pistol pointed at the man's neck, and his other arm barring his chest before the guard even realized what was happening.  

"Take me to Mogar. Now," he hissed, clicking the safety off right next to the man's ear to show that he meant business. The guard nodded soundlessly, starting to lead him slowly around the facility, until they were in front of a thick iron door.  

"Thanks," said the Vagabond, before shooting the man point blank and letting him crumple to the floor.

Michael's never been left alone for this long. He assumes that the footsteps he hears approaching his cell - two pairs, one more steady and the other's suggesting it's source is all but stumbling down the hall - are either people heading on their way down the rarely-used and often scream-filled hall, or his own visitors coming to see if they've broken him yet. His eyes, all but glued shut with gunk and blood, peel open and burn with a hatred as strong as it was on his first day in this hell hole.

He may not even be physically able to lift his head - he's exhausted and starving and so, so damn thirsty, to the point that his tongue feels like a coarse, rough cloth against the roof of his mouth - but that doesn't mean Mogar's stopped fighting. The Wild Child kicked and bit and snarled and even *headbutted* in his first few days here, before he was beaten down and strung up and left stiff and pained and too hurt to move without wincing and hissing. Even now, the pain in his arms shifts between a quiet throbbing and a dull numbness, too constant to be worth notice.

Michael's bitter musings about his last few weeks here are cut off, though, by the sound of a muffled gunshot and the undeniable, familiar thump of a falling body outside of his cell door. He tries and fails to lifts his head proper, instead tugging it up for a second or two before it sways dangerously and he's forced to drop his chin against his chest again. He's only even kept sitting up by the chains about his wrists, and his back hunches in no comfortable manner.

Despite all of this, all he can think about is if that gunshot means what he thinks it does. If it means that, despite all odds and all the time that passed, his Crew, his *friends*, finally fucking found him.  Part of him wants to scold himself for getting his hopes up. The rest of him prays to a God he doesn't believe in that it's true.

The Vagabond reaches down and searches the man's pocket for keys. Nothing. Well, shit, looks like we're doing this the old fashioned way. He points the pistol at the door lock and fires two shots. Bang bang, motherfuckers, guess who's home. The door swings open, pieces of shattered deadbolt falling onto the floor. He swings the door open more, and steps into the room.

 The place is dark, almost no light filtering into the cramped quarters. The metallic tang of blood fills the air. In the dim light, the Vagabond sees his target, chained to a wall like some animal. This whole place is just sickening. The people behind this would get what was coming to them, he would see to that.

 Taking a few tentative steps forward, he finally gets the full picture of what they had done. He was beaten, bruised, and starving, but still alive. The Wild Child himself. The Vagabond knelt down in front of him, placing a hand on the chain binding his right wrist lightly. 

"Don't move." He fired a single, well placed shot at the link connecting the cuff to the chain and it splintered away in a spray of metallic bits. The chain rattled through the top ring, suddenly dropping both of Michael's wrists. The Vagabond pulled the chain from the other cuff with a gentle tug, throwing it to the side.  

"We're taking you home, Michael."

The sound of two more gunshots and the following crack of the door's lock is like music to poor Michael's ears. It's also slightly painful to poor Michael's ears, and he reflexively flinches as much as his tired, aching body will allow at the soft screech of the tired hinges and the dull thump of the door against the wall perpendicular to it.

But then he hears the tentative footsteps - just one set, the steady one he'd heard approaching, the only one left out of the pair that had drawn closer from outside - and the best thing of all, a voice Michael knows like his own. He mouths Ryan's name in quiet, relieved recognition, the move likely going unseen what with the slump of his shoulders and head. The shift of his lips shakes a few drops of blood down to the floor below, each tapping against the cold, marred stone before going as still as their source. 

Honestly, Michael's just never been so damn happy to see Ryan's creepy masked mug in his life. He tries to tell him so, to do or say *something* worthwhile, but he just gives a scratchy sort of whimper as his arms lower for the first time in days and, with his support lost, sways dangerously on his knees, weight tipping unbidden towards the masked gent kneeling before him.

The Vagabond catches him, trying to be careful with the obviously fragile man. He shifts to pick him up, one arm under the crook of his knees, the other curled under his back. He felt Michael's head tip onto his arm, and grimaced under his mask. With the pistol he hoped he wouldn't have to use so close to his charge's body pointed forward as best it could be, the Vagabond exited the cell. 

Looking down the hall, there were no guards coming for them. There wouldn't be another patrol down here until 11:30. Shudder to think how they would react to their prized captive seeming to breaking his bonds and shooting one of their men. Retracing his steps, the masked man soon found himself at the exit of the building, and then entrance to the pitch black of the courtyard.

  It was almost too simple to get across the field to a side gate. On the outside of the fence was a single henchmen, smoking a cigarette, and completely unaware of who was behind him. 

"Smoking kills," the Vagabond muttered, before sending a round into the man's heart. The guard sputtered blood, before finally collapsing. With him out of the way, the gate swung open easily. A short, tense walk later, the pair arrived at the getaway vehicle Ryan had stolen, a shiny red convertible. Go big or go home, right?

 After lowering Michael into the passenger seat with the utmost care, the Vagabond rounded the bumper and hopped into the driver's seat. He revved the engine, but didn't pull away. Instead he pulled his cell out of his pocket and dialed a familiar number.

"Geoff, blow the fuckers sky high." 

As the car peeled away from the factory, the rush of jets could be heard heading in the opposite direction. The Vagabond seemed unconcerned with that however.

"Can you talk?" he asked Michael, glancing at him from the corner of his mask.

Michael's head swims as Ryan lifts him up, every bone and muscle in his body seeming to scream and moan at the shift and a barely audible hiss of breath escaping the lad as he squeezes his eyes shut, the world horribly blurry without his glasses. He refuses to cry, even now, and just curls one of his hands as tightly as he can manage into the fabric of his ratty, torn up t-shirt as his head drops limply onto Ryan's shoulder. 

The only reaction from the half-dead man throughout his sudden escape is a soft puff of laughter at the Vagabond's bitter joke, but even it doesn't last long, the ache in Michael's ribs too much to sustain the mirthful shake.  He hunches forwards a bit as he's lowered (with a gentleness most uncharacteristic of the masked Vagabond) into the passenger's side seat, using the brief time that the phone call takes up to press and stretch his sore, stiff, bloodied back upright against the cool leather of his seat-back. 

"Well 'nough," Michael croaks in reply to Ryan's question, eyes still pressed closed and one hand pressed unbidden against his ribcage. His breathing is irregular and slightly raspy, which he thinks vaguely is... probably not good. Here's hoping Geoff's got Caleb waiting and ready, because hospitals aren't and never have been an option. 

"You guys sure took your sweet ass time," he adds wryly as the back of his head touches gently against the headrest behind it and stays there, but there's no anger in his voice. He's really just a stupid smartass to the bitter end, and anyone in the inner circle of the Crew worth their place knows it.

In all honestly, Michael's so damn thrilled to be free that he thinks he could cry. He's been in some tight spots, sure, but usually *Gavin's* the idiot getting kidnapped, and not for more than an hour or two before the numbnuts that caught him learn how the Crew reacts to folks snatching away their members.

In all honesty, Michael can't remember the last time something like this went down, much less for so long or to the Main Six. It's...  He has to stop musing on that particular train of thought as he coughs into his hand, lowering it again and resting his head back without looking into his palm. He can feel his own blood warming its surface without checking.

"Sorry," was all the Vagabond offered. He wasn't sure that telling Michael the truth would make him feel better. The truth that they had thought he was dead. The truth that half the crew had been inconsolable for days. The truth that they had almost given up. 

But not Ryan, oh no. Ryan had never had a single inkling that Michael was gone. He had searched and searched, and only yesterday had he even told Geoff about what he had found. And just like that, the crew had rallied. It was almost magical the way a bunch or grieving, morally grey weirdos could suddenly turn into a top notch strike force.  

The Vagabond drove like a bat out of hell through the Los Santos streets, scaring commuters and little old ladies on their way home from work. Eventually, they made it to one of the taller buildings in the city center. The convertible ramped into the underground garage with a slight bump, before being parallel parked neatly in the "to be disposed of later" spot. 

He shut the engine down and getting out of the car, not bothering to take the keys out of the ignition. Jeremy would take care of that later. Once again rounding the car, he opened the passenger door and picked up the battered man carefully, making sure to support his neck more carefully now that he wasn't holding a gun.

 "On a sliding scale of "Gavin ate my fruit loops" to "I've just been run over by a semi-truck" how bad are you feeling right now?" asked the Vagabond as he walked to the elevator up to the penthouse suite.

Michael doesn't remotely expect an actual apology to his half-joking complaint, the brief mutter of "sorry" coming at him from way out of left field and making the gravity of the situation hit him proper for the first time. He's spent the last several weeks struggling to keep himself from giving up, making snide comments and insulting his captors until enough time passed as he thought was acceptable to quit the constant stream of barbs.

Now, Michael by no means said fuck-all about the Crew or its members (his friends, some like Geoff and Gavin close enough to be family to the Jersey lad), he just sort of... went quiet in his last week. 

It made his and his torturer's little sessions together more violent than ever, the only sound to fill that hollow, cold little cell being the echoing of skin (and, on occasion, metal) hitting skin and the ever-angrier, demanding questions that were shouted in Michael's face. He was only punished the way he was because his spitting in his captor's face was, beyond the obvious, also the only way he'd bothered to physically respond in so many days, anger finally mounting as the sick bastard gripping his throat threatened to drag another member of the Crew in for some "talking".

But he's out now, he tells himself angrily once he realizes his fingers have begun to shake just at the recollection, he's out and he's fine and pissing himself now of all times would be fucking *stupid*.

Michael doesn't have the energy to be embarrassed as Ryan lifts him up, the gentle hold on his neck too warm a comfort for the lad to reject like he typically might. He wheezes a dry laugh at the Vagabond's phrasing and replies wryly, "Somewhere between "don't make me laugh" and "well, at least I can laugh"."

"That's good at least. Just hold tight, Caleb's upstairs and ready to patch you up. You're almost home."

With that, the Vagabond stepped into the elevator and waited for Geoff to allow them up. The doors closed in front of him, and the floor moved slightly under his feet as the car climbed the 20+ floors to the penthouse. 


	2. commandeer the local airwaves

With a ding, the car arrived at the top floor. The doors slid open, revealing a full set of 5 worried faces, plus Caleb in the background fumbling with a pile of medical supplies. At the sight of Michael, bruised, and beaten, but still alive, the atmosphere in the room changed from stress to relief. 

The Vagabond shouldered his way through the line of his friends, laying Michael down on Geoff's couch. He then stepped back as the injured man was suddenly swarmed by everyone else in the room. Amid the swarm of "How you feeling?" and "You fucking asshole, don't scare us like that again", he sat down on the chair opposite the couch and just waited.

 The Vagabond pulled the mask from his head, setting it on the floor beside him. Deep inside, Ryan was glad that he had found him when he did. Who knows how much longer Michael could have lasted in that horrible place. He couldn't wait to see tomorrow's headlines: 

"Gang Base Destroyed in Air Strike"

Michael feels a surge of warmth in his chest at the words - "You're almost home." He never thought he'd hear those words again, and it's enough to make him relax fractionally in Ryan's arms, the older man's chest and arms warm against Michael's own worryingly cold frame.

The elevator ride is uneventful and just long enough for Michael to grow drowsy in its peaceful rocking and soft whirring rumbles, his hand long uncurled from his shirt and his arm resting instead loosely over his middle in a way that lets the first knuckles of his fingers just barely meet Ryan's abdomen through the Vagabond's own shirt.

 And then the doors are open and Michael hates himself for feeling a spike of panic at the hands that clamor at him, his fingers catching onto Ryan's shirt and gripping for a fraction of a second before drawing back again just as quickly. He doesn't look at Ryan again as the others fuss at him, Gavin staying near Michael's head and fretfully trying push his matted and tangled curls fruitlessly out of his face every time they fall.

He can't even answer any of the questions he's being asked before another barrage of new queries hits, so he gives up and just lets himself be taken care of, and, despite Geoff's demanding that he stay awake, damn it, keep your eyes open! Michael! 

Michael's head drops back and he nods right off, the dark waves of unconsciousness that had been lapping at his mind for days now finally rising enough to overtake him and pull him under.

Ryan watches from the chair as the others panic over Michael passing out. They were worried, and that was fine, but they really should give Caleb some space to work, the poor kid was frazzled as it is. The chair creaked as he stood up, causing the others to look at him momentarily, still caught in the grips of panic. 

"The best thing to do would be to let Caleb do his job," Ryan suggested, almost imposingly stepping forward to tower over the others. "So just relax." 

Geoff and Gavin looked at each other, then hurriedly tried to herd the others out of the room. Geoff practically had to pick Jack up and carry him away before the room was finally quiet. Ryan sighed to himself. They cared, sometimes too much for their own good. 

He knelt down next to the medic, looking at the unconscious and bloodied form in front of him. He couldn't help but feel horrible. If he had been quicker, done something faster, maybe things could have gone differently. No use dwelling on the past.

 Caleb did the best he could. Cleaned away all the excess blood, put fresh new clothes on him, stitched cuts and put cold compresses on broken ribs. He was battered and broken, but he'd live. Back in fighting shape in a few months. That was good. At some point, Ryan had fallen asleep in the chair across the room, waiting to be woken up when Michael came to.

Michael rises back into consciousness slowly, his head swimming groggily and the memories of the day prior returning slowly. He finds himself suddenly awash with relief as he remembers Ryan stealing him back away from his captors, and lets his eyes crack blearily open to what he's sure will be the warm, familiar atmosphere of the Crew's penthouse's living room.

He has to blink a few times before the cold, damp stone walls of his cell come as close to being in focus as he can manage them, his skin wet with blood and his body suddenly searing with pain. His pounding heart leaps up into his throat and he croaks a broken, quiet, "I- What?"

The cell door swings open to bang against the adjacent wall, and Michael flinches into wakefulness.

The lad jolts up on the sofa and takes a sharp, raspy breath, one hand pressing into the cushion behind him and the other jerking up to rest over his ribs. The coarse touch of bandages against his palm is oddly calming, and he gives a shaky sigh and sits up a bit straighter, lowering his head and wincing as he shifts his feet from the sofa down into the floor and curls his arm more fully about his sore middle. He doesn't seem to spot Ryan just yet, still reeling from his nightmare and trying to make absolutely certain that he's even awake proper *now*.

Ryan wakes with a jolt, hearing the quiet sound of feet on tile even in his sleep. One of his many talents, almost akin to sleeping with one eye open. He rubs his eyes sleepily, looking over to see Michael awake and staring off into the middle distance like a man possessed.

"You alright over there?" He asked, keeping his voice low. No need to startle him after all he'd been through, after all. Might trigger some early onset PTSD or something, who knows. Certainly not Ryan. He was a merc, not a doctor.  

To be quite honest, he had his own nightmare that night. A reality where he'd been too slow. He didn't like to think about it. What matters is that Michael was here now, and not in that fucking place. The knowledge that the factory was now a steaming pile of ash was also some small comfort. He'd make sure to tell Mogar all about it when he was feeling up to it.

Michael actually fucking *flinches* at the sound of Ryan's voice, eyes flitting up from where they'd been narrowed at the floor and locking onto the (slightly blurry) man opposite him from across the room. He relaxes fractionally once he registers who the voice's source is and nods tensely, lowering his head to rest in his hand and rubbing tiredly at his eyes as he just... breathes. 

This is real. Michael is safe. He just has to... to let that fact really sink in. 

"How long've I been out anyways?" He pipes up, resting his forearms over his thighs and lifting his messy-haired head up at Ryan, squinting slightly without the aid of his specs and furrowing his brows against the fluorescent lights of the apartment. He looks haggard and small - too thin and tired to be the great and dangerous Mogar, the Wild Child of Los Santos and the frenzied terror of the Fake AH Crew's Main Six.

 Michael doesn't look like any of that right now to the untrained eye. He looks weary and worn but there's an underlying determination there - a fire and an anger to strike back even harder than they already have, and to do it *personally*. He wants to fight and kick and punch his way back into healthiness and his feared position amongst his friends, and it's most obvious in his eyes, which are alight again with the flicker of a familiar, furious fire.

"Dunno. From the light outside, I'd say its probably still the morning, and seeing how nobody around here wakes up before noon, I'd say maybe 8 or 9 o'clock. You look like hell walking. Well, hell sitting." Ryan was not much one for subtlety. Honesty is the best policy, after all.

 He lurched up from the chair, still slightly drowsy. His footsteps on the tile floor echoed slightly in the empty room as he crossed it. He offered Michael a hand, knowing he would probably be unsteady on his feet for a few days, if not weeks. 

He was thrown off, however, by the intensity in his eyes. Sheer determination shining through the pain. He really never stopped, did he?

 "You have a spare pair of glasses anywhere? All that squinting can't be good for you."

Michael is terribly tempted to wave away Ryan's hand and be the stubborn ass he usually is, but the memory of the tunnel vision he got from just sitting up is enough to make him drop his calloused palm begrudgingly into the older man's larger one so he can pull up and support the injured lad.

"Yeah, well, excuse me if I haven't powdered my nose in a little while," he mutters a bit thickly once he's stood up, blinking a bit more rapidly than strictly necessary as he struggles to make the world stop spinning around him and Ryan. He rubs at his temples with his free hand and adds after a beat or two, "I've got a cracked pair in my nightstand for emergencies. Never got around to buying another spare pair. S'good enough."

 Being prepared has never been Mogar's forte. He's always been with Gavin during the more impromptu missions, a master at planning on a dime and keeping on his toes.  Until he got fucking kidnapped, that is, but hey, nobody's perfect.

"Alright, let's go get those, then. Can you walk well enough, or do you need me to help you?" Ryan hoped he wouldn't take that as him being condescending. He was just trying to help, he didn't mean to add insult to injury. In this case, that particular turn of phrase was extremely apt. 

He held his free arm behind Michael, ready to catch him if he fell backward. Ryan wondered where Caleb went, surely he would be better to help with Michael's state than he was. He was trained to be tough and tested, not a nurse for frail friends. 

Not that he minded. He actually found the closeness and the feeling of Michael's hand in his, if even just temporarily, almost nice. He was just worried he would be too rough, or not rough enough, and he would hurt him even more than he already was.

Michael tries not to let the offer wound his already-bruised pride too much and just nods, sure Ryan's as unaccustomed to this as he is. The Vagabond is doing... surprisingly well, though. Sure, he's holding Michael's hand like it's made of glass and seems ready to catch the Wild Child any second now in case he drops off again (which is actually pretty appreciated, since Michael still feels like he kind of lucked out in getting to the sofa first before blacking out last time), but it's not *bad*.

It's actually sort of... comforting? Nice, even? Hm.

Nah, no, that's silly, probably. Michael gives himself a little shake and just lets Ryan help him along back into his bedroom (it's not been touched, which doesn't affect Michael as much as it should. He doesn't know that his closest friends thought him dead and couldn't do anything more than mourn him and, in Gavin's case, the poor kid, nick a few of Michael's tees and conk out on his bed once or twice). The glasses are easily found, unmoved from where they'd been tossed down into Michael's nightstand drawer, and while one lens has a small web of cracks and a small scratch dogging and zig-zagging across its surface, it's still on obvious relief to Michael to be able to see *somewhat* as his eyes open properly and he stops his struggling blinking nonsense.

"There, much better. Now you look like a functioning human being again. You should sit down, here let me help." Ryan carefully helps lower Michael down into a sitting position on the unmade bed. He slides open the closet door, revealing the unkempt closet.

"What do you feel like wearing today? Louis Vuitton or Gucci? Just kidding, its the same three t-shirts in different colors as usual. Sorry, I'm beginning to sound like an actual nurse now. I'll just, stand outside and let you figure it out." He awkwardly shuffled to the door, waiting right outside, just in case anything happened or he fell down. He was allowed to be worried, right?

Still, he couldn't help but shake the feeling he was being too soft, too babying.

Michael, while admittedly pretty surprised by Ryan's mother henning (since, besides the obvious bit where it's *Ryan*, most people wouldn't even want to begin to struggle over the stubborn lad's heavily-cemented walls regarding outside help. Ryan doesn't seem to have encountered them yet, or he's managed to barrel right on through, polite as anything and leaving Michael too dazed to protest proper), is actually not complaining, and actually laughs at the flimsy joke the oft-intimidating Vagabond gives before fleeing.

Mogar is left tittering to himself on the bed, shaking his head with his usual crooked, one-dimpled smile settling itself onto his lips. He pushes himself slowly to a stand and half-shuffles, half-limps over to his still-open closet, tugging one of the three t-shirts out without paying much attention to exactly which.

Getting dressed is an achy but surprisingly gratifying process - pulling the shirt on over his bandaged and otherwise bare torso stretches out some of the coiled, tight muscle in his arms and back, and pulling up his jeans does much of the same for his lower back, hips, and legs. It's a relief, honestly, for Michael to feel that weight dropping off of his body, even if he hadn't really fully recognized that it was there to begin with. Hindsight's 20/20, after all.

When the lad finally reemerges, he's looking much more like himself. There's still visible bruises and scrapes peppering his arms and neck, and one near-faded one on his jaw, but he's brushed his wild curls as best he could (which really wasn't all that much, plus they're still slightly dampened from Michael dunking his own head into his own bathroom sink. He'd just got dressed and it was the best he could do!) and seems a lot closer to "average secret gangster youth" than "just escaped from terrible kidnapping". It's a welcome change, no doubt.

Ryan waits patiently for Michael to exit the room. He paces the floor a couple times, before being distracted by a newspaper Caleb must have brought upstairs. He smiled at the headline and picture on the front cover. 

"Local Factory Destroyed in Rival Gang Attack"

On the front was a picture of the ruined factory, burnt to the ground and still smoldering as the morning news shot the picture. 

Looking up from the print, he saw Michael leaving the bedroom. He looked much less hurt now, which was good. Anything that smoothed out his reentry to normal, well, not entirely normal but as normal as they could get, life was a-okay in his book. Even with just a day of being home, he looked infinitely better and more relaxed. 

"Looking better already. Getting back to that "I'm gonna dress like a nerd, but if you call me a nerd I'll kill you" aesthetic as soon as possible, huh?"

Michael mock-scowls at the teasing greeting and pulls the newspaper out of Ryan's hand with his index finger and thumb with a crooked little grin, legs crossing at the ankles as he rests back to half-sit, half-lean against the arm of the sofa and straightens out the newspaper to look at it properly, "Dunno *how* graphic tees and jeans automatically equal 'nerd chic' to you, but I'm also not planning on taking fashion advice from Mister Masked Man McGee any time soon, so can it." 

His voice is only as biting as it usually is, which is indicative enough of his irritation being surface-level and nothing to throw a real fit over, as it almost always is. One of his hands lifts to push his glasses further up his nose and his brows furrow a bit as they read through the front page's story proper. He only cracks a grin to match Ryan's once he's sure that they're not reporting any connection of the incident to the Fake AH Crew beyond a vague speculation, which is the norm for most crimes committed in Los Santos nowadays.

"Good shit," he adds shortly, tossing the paper back to Ryan and leaning back until he falls long-ways onto the couch cushions with a soft "oof". His legs dangle over the arm he'd been leaning against and one of his own arms rests over his stomach while the other tucks itself behind his head.

"Listen, my mask is the ultimate in "criminal couture," Ryan retorts, catching the paper and smoothly tossing it onto the table. He sits down on the table beside the couch, looking down at Michael quizzically. 

"I, uh, I got an errand to run that I think you might want to help with. You feelin' up for a little ridealong with your good friend the Vagabond? No danger involved." Ryan asked tentatively. He didn't want to push him too far after only a few hours of being home, but this was a surprised he'd love to see. "Might also be nice to get a little bit of downtime before you get mobbed with hugs and crying manchildren. I'll be down in the garage if you feel up to it." 

He patted the table surface beside him once, something of a nervous tic of his, then started for the elevator. He picked up the Vagabond's mask on the way, and tapped the close button on the elevator panel. The choice was completely up to Michael. Regardless of his answer, though, Ryan was going to close up his unfinished business.


	3. bound to be a ghost in the back of your closet

Michael blinks at the offer, propping himself up on his elbows to watch Ryan abscond with a curious sort of expression. He usually doesn't really go anywhere with the impressively violent gent unless they're put on the same team during a heist, and while they've always been as companionable as any two members of the Fake AH Crew are, Michael's admittedly pretty surprised by how much he's seen of Ryan since his return. 

He figures after a few moments of intrigued musing that he might want to book it before he gets left behind, though, and quickly hops to tugging his shoes on and heading out the door, grabbing one of his jackets on the way out and letting the door swing shut behind him. If Michael has the chance get out on a job this soon after getting home, you'd best believe he will. The lad all but bounces in the elevator, rocking slightly on his heels and brimming with that determined, fiery energy of his. 

The elevator dings and the doors slide open to show Michael the garage, which he steps out into with his hoodie half-zipped and his hands stuffed into his pockets. It's easy enough to spot Ryan, and Mogar trots on over to the awaiting vehicle and ducks into the passenger side seat with a lopsided grin.

"Nice to see you made the fun choice. New rule, though, seatbelts on. Safety first after all." Immediately after finishing that short sentence, Ryan throws the car into reverse, shooting out of the entrance to the garage. Another shift and the pair were flying down the street in one of Geoff's old roadsters.  

The windows were down, and the wind whipped through the cabin as the car sped down the nearly empty city street. Ryan took turns like a madman, drifting around some corners with incredible speed. At one point he was sure that the car even left the ground. Welcome back to the crew, Mogar.  

After about five minutes of high-speed reckless driving, the two finally arrived at their destination. The interrogation house the edge of town was known by the crew to be only a place to store "top security" prisoners. And by George, Ryan had one hell of an important prisoner locked up inside.  

He turned the engine over, making it go silent.  

"Ready to do some work?" he almost crooned, reaching into the backseat to hand Michael a silenced pistol that had been hidden.

Michael barely gets his seat belt to clasp shut over his front before he and Ryan are peeling out of the garage and down the street. Every turn has him shifting and leaning slightly in his seat, and he crows joyfully when they launch off something and into the air a small ways, one fist out of his open window and pushing up into the air victoriously. Mogar is back in his element, the wind whipping his still-wild curls about his face and his eyes bright with the thrill of screeching back through the streets of Los Santos. 

The Wild Child of Los Santos looks pumped as *hell* when they get to what he immediately recognizes at the interrogation house. His pulse ramps up and he feels a vengeful sort of thrill, hoping that this business is involving what he thinks it is. 

"As always," he replies, voice laced with the thrill of the job and fingers quick to curl around the grip of the pistol Ryan hands him before he ducks out of the car. He pushes his muscles' protests into the back of his mind and follows Ryan once the gent's out as well, tugging his hood up and over his head as a way of concealing the remainder of his bruises. It's a shoddy job, but it does well enough.

Ryan slips his mask over his head, and the Vagabond enters the safehouse. Surprisingly, empty handed. This wasn't his job to finish. He leads Michael silently upstairs to what used to be the master bedroom. He clicks the light on to reveal a man tied to a chain in the middle of the room. He had a fabric sack over his lolling head.  

"Ray picked up this guy trying to leave town a couple days ago. Someone tipped him off that the Fake AH were coming to pick him up." The Vagabond walked up and yanked the bag of the man's head, causing him to look up in fear. "Salvatore South, head of the South Streets. He ordered the job that, well, you know." 

The Vagabond stepped back, looking at the hooded Wild Child with a questioning glance. The choice with what happened wasn't his to make. An eye for an eye. Or in poor Salvatore's case, an eye for the wrath of a very angry, very scorned merc with only his own fucked up morals to seal his fate.

Michael's stomach rolls and churns with a burning anger. He has the ache in his chest and the bruises around his neck to fuel that bitter need for retribution all on his own, but being within a few feet of the bastard that made the last month of his life hell and nearly got him killed only seems to make it all the stronger. His hold on the pistol is white-knuckled, every finger but the one touching the trigger wrapped as tightly as it can be about the grip. 

Michael's curious brown eyes flit to those bright blue ones that he can see through the eye-holes of Ryan's mask, and he understands immediately why he's the only one armed, and why the Vagabond has yet to do any real damage to this poor bastard himself. 

It's Michael's kill - Michael's *revenge*. The mere thought is immensely, sickeningly satisfying. 

All in all, Michael's not the type to dick around with those who've fucked him over - he doesn't like to play with his food, you could say. Prefers to get his vengeance and move on to the next job.  

This is why it only takes him that one affirming glance and another second of silence, clouded only by the panicked, fearful breathing from South, before Michael clicks the safety off the pistol, points it at the bound-up man's knee, and pulls the trigger taut, his eyes suddenly cold and hard and without any remote semblance of mercy. It ages him drastically, the shift from Michael to Mogar a visible and jarring one. The firing of the gun is muffled by its silencer, and the only signs that the shot hits its target is the way Salvatore begins to writhe in his chair with a choked, raw scream, and the sudden bloom of red over the tied-up bastard's pant leg. 

"Stupid fucker," Michael spits venomously under his breath, the words dripping with a hateful anger that it always lacks when the lad's around just the Crew, his friends and those he cares for. He doesn't hesitate to unload another shot into South's shoulder and then, after a few lengthy moments of watching the man squirm and sob in his chair like the fucking scum Jones knows he is, into his skull. The up-and-coming gangster's head rolls back limply on his shoulders and he goes boneless and loose, face tear-stained and crimson red blood bubbling up from the small hole the bullet buried in his brain left behind.

The Vagabond didn't say anything now, letting the satisfaction of the kill sink in before putting a reaffirming hand on Mogar's shoulder. All that boundless anger finally had a place to go. Such a shame that South hadn't put up more of a fight. It would have been interesting to see him beg for mercy. Disappointing, just like the rest of his gang.  

Well, former gang. As of 30 seconds ago, there were no South Streets left in Los Santos. The Fake AH had cleaned up every. Last. One. No exceptions. No mercy. Just fear and a message. One of ours is worth all of yours.  

The Vagabond turned and left the safehouse as quickly as he had entered it. He took the stairs quickly, leaving Mogar a moment for himself. He was sure he wouldn't mind if he waited in the car. Settling into the driver's seat, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, sending a brief text to Lindsay. 

"Take South off the compass, the needle swings our way now." 

Their texts were untraceable, of course, so there was no need to talk in code. The Vagabond just felt that it added a little...flourish to their daily affairs. A sense of romance, almost. If there even was any romance to be found in their line of work.

The hand on his shoulder was enough to pull Michael back into the waking world, his narrow vision expanding from where it had tunneled down to pinpoint right on South. He blinks a few times, catching Ryan's eyes for the briefest of seconds before the Vagabond is drawing away from him yet again, never close for long. 

It's... baffling, Michael realizes a bit belatedly, that Ryan was the one to accompany him here. To give him this kill. It's hard to pinpoint exactly how, since it's not like they aren't *friends*, but Geoff or Gavin or even Ray have always been the ones to fuss over Michael whenever he gets badly injured. Never Ryan. 

Michael is by no means complaining, though, the quiet company of the older gent a nice shift from Gavin's ceaseless chatter and Geoff's constant jabs and snark. Michael loves the whole Crew to death, but it's also easy to go stir crazy being with any one of them for too long. 

He reemerges from the interrogation house looking much more like Michael than Mogar. With his hood back down and his shoulders loose and relaxed, and the gun grasped only loosely at his side with the safety back on, it's obvious there's a definite bit of weight that's been lifted off the frustrated lad's shoulders. He drops back into the car without a word, letting the silence settle comfortably over both of the gangsters as the silenced pistol finds its way back into the back seat and Michael begrudgingly buckles himself back in.

The Vagabond pulls the mask from his head, and Ryan tosses it into the back seat. As soon as he hears the click of the seatbelt, he revvs the engine of the car. He glances sideways at Michael, then pulls the emergency brake up and the car jolts off.  

It wasn't that he didn't like spending time with the lad under normal circumstances, he reasoned to himself. It was just that normally he was busy with errands or picking up groceries or doing research on heists. He was just so...busy. But now, he wasn't, and Michael needed someone that wouldn't either baby him and make him feel like an invalid, or talk his ear off about how much they missed him. 

No, what he needed now was some good old fashioned bashing, just like the good ol’ days. Something to get him back in the saddle a little bit. 

"Where do you feel like going?" Ryan practically shouted over the roar of the air and the revving engine as they sped down the center city street with ease.

Michael doesn't catch Ryan's glance, just letting the car's momentum press him back into his seat and lean him slightly left and right with every sharp, screeching turn they take. If there's anything Michael loves, it's a fast, high-quality ride, and this vehicle certainly fits those standards. He ends up leaning a bit nearer to the open window without much thought, the wind that whips at his hair and buffets his eyes closed like the sweetest relief. 

That has to be something Michael missed the most down in his cell, without even realizing it. The cool, crisp, fresh air of Los Santos. 

"Honestly? Fucking *anywhere*," Michael replies, pausing for another second or two before adding with a bit more thought, "Maybe the beach though. It'd be nice just to fuck around for a while." 

Michael isn't usually so easily burnt out, and he's sure it'll wear off real quick, but in his defense he *has* been through a lot, and just wants some time to enjoy Los Santos again without Gavin smothering him or Geoff's mother henning or Ray's monotonous jabs or Jack's pitying looks, which are easily the worst thing out of them all. 

He just wants to swim a bit and drive and *live* damn it. He wants to live again.

"The beach it is. Good choice, mon frere." 


	4. lighter than the air

Ryan was driving the gears to their limit, taking turns sharp and fast. He decides to take the long way there, pedal to the metal on narrow roads. Eventually he slowed the car and drifted it into park just perfectly on the curb. He turned the car off, sticking the keys into the pocket of his jacket.  

Hopping out of the car, he shielded his eyes as the bright sun glared against his pale face. This is why he preferred to go out at night. Damn sun, always messing things up.  

"So you just wanna walk around or what? I'm not quite sure what normal people do at the beach." 

In fact, Ryan couldn't clearly remember the last time he was at the beach at all. Well, there was that one time in Mexico, but that was for a job, not for fun. Normally wasn't his deal. But, as he saw Michael's face light up at the sight of the waves and sand, his mind started to spin in the other direction. I mean, hey, if it could make "Mr. Rage Quit" himself happy, then maybe it wasn't all bad.

Michael throws Ryan an incredulous look over the hood of the car at the query, snorting and shrugging his jacket off to throw into the backseat. It's easy to forget that the pale young lad grew up on the Jersey shores, but it becomes slightly more apparent as he kicks off his shoes and socks like it's the most natural thing in the world and tosses them into the back as well. He gives a joking retort of, "Gee Ryan, I knew you didn't get out much, but we literally live *right on a beach*." 

He waits up for Ryan to get his own shoes off ("Trust me dude, you might not care during a heist but getting sand in your shoes fucking sucks.") before skidding down the dunes from the road down to the white sands of the beach proper. He hands the slide with enough grace, only nearly toppling once, and all but beelines right for the water once he's hit level ground, his shirt finding its way off at some point and the bandage-clad lad hopping into the already-rising waves with a whoop and a splash.  

It's some kind of miracle he's still got his glasses on when he resurfaces, and he spits out a bit of the salty ocean water before grinning at an unsure Ryan, "C'mon man, like we've not swum out here a dozen times before!" Because, y'know. Falling out of boats during heists counts, right?

Ryan reluctantly lays his jacket and shoes in the backseat, then follows him down the hill, more carefully. Just looking at the huge grin on the lad's face is enough to inspire him to at least make an effort at being normal.  

He takes a running leap into an approaching wave, getting blasted in the face with a veritable anvil of cold salt water. He honestly didn't know what he was expecting. He gets swirled around under the water, going ass-over-teakettle nearer and nearer to shore. Resurfacing with a gasp, he catches Michael giggling at his poor show of a swimming attempt.  

He splashes him with a spray of water, using his hands as scoops to get more water up.  

"We've swum in the calm part before, but I don't know shit about swimming in these types of waves," he says, before a second wave crashes over him, drenching him a second time.

Michael only laughs harder the second time Ryan is shoved back towards shore by the waves, bobbing easily with the rise and fall of the water until he begins to flounder thanks to his tittering. He spits out a few mouthfuls of the salty seawater between sniggers as he fights to catch his breath now as well, letting the waves push him closer to where Ryan struggles and lifting his brows at him with his crooked little one-dimpled smile, "This just in: the Big Bad Vagabond's beaten by a few small waves directly on the shores of Los Santos. It'll be all over the papers tomorrow!" 

Ryan's chance to splash Michael in retaliation is knocked away by the wave that hits them both, each man as inattentive as the other and both floundering for a moment. Michael bursts back up from under the water and slips his glasses off, holding them tightly as he shakes the excess water from his curls before replacing them with a humbled huff. 

"Alright, seriously though, you're trying too hard not to move at all. Just let 'em pick you up a bit, alright?"

As if to help Michael demonstrate what he means, another small wave approaches, and this time the lad simply rises and falls as the water does, bobbing along and holding his hands palms-up in a half-sarcastic little shrug, as though to say, "What else can ya do?"

Ryan tries Michael's trick with the next wave that comes by, floating easily over the small wave. Huh, that was way easier than he thought it would be. He was expecting some sort of balancing trick, or something of the sort, but no, it was just as easy as going with the flow.  

"Not bad Jersey boy, but if you keep on hurting my pride like this, I might just sic the nurse squad on you." He wouldn't really do that, he knew Michael was having too much fun out in the free world to go back to babygate village. But, he wouldn't be Ryan if he didn't strike fear into hearts.  

To show that he was being friendly, he purposefully flubbed a wave, taking a spill into the waves once again. This time he resurfaced quickly, shaking his head to move the wet hair from his eyes. He pulled the shirt over his head and stuck it through one of his belt loops to keep it from floating away. As he did, another wave knocked into him, sending him stumbling backward.  

"For fucks sake, can I get a single break?" he complained good-naturedly.

Michael scoffs at the halfhearted threat, seeing immediately through it and just starting to push back out through the water to where he'd swum before he had to drift back to help out the struggling Haywood. He does flub a bit himself when Ryan goes down not once, but twice, though, reemerging a spluttering, laughing mess and shaking his own curls out yet again. Pushing them back from his face would be a fruitless waste of effort, and he recognizes that from years of experience, so he just lets the soaked spirals of hair fall around his eyes and nose a bit as they're wont to do. 

"Well hey, the shore's back there if you really feel like wimping out," Michael throws back, a companionable sort of challenge worked into the retort as he himself swims slowly (leisurely, even) further back from the sands of the beach despite the constant lapping at his back and neck of the ocean's steadily rising tide.  

He seems calm (or as calm as Mogar can really get) though as he drifts back a little ways more, careful to glance over his shoulder every once in a while to make sure no particularly risky waves are coming his way. It doesn't seem like anything's hitting that the Jersey-born lad can't handle, though, so Michael just settles in to rock with the water and watch Ryan flounder and splash around most non-threateningly nearer the shoreline.

Ryan Haywood just can't resist a challenge. He swims out after the lad, trying to seem nonchalant, but actually really trying his best. The waves go over his head once or twice, but he manages to push through. He looks up after an eternity of swimming, only to find himself halfway out to where Michael rests like a goddamn mermaid on the white waves.  

"This is why I usually drive the boats, goddammit, not swim around like an idiot!"  As if the ocean itself was punishing him for his hubris, Ryan immediately got smacked by a wave, the salt water stinging his eyes. This was, by far, the most embarrassing thing he'd ever experienced. The Vagabond, second on the Los Santos Most Wanted list was being beaten by a recently kidnapped scrawny little lad.  

He could almost hear the laughter now. Jack and Gavin's incessant giggling that would haunt him for the rest of his days, and Ray's snide comments that would haunt his dreams.

Michael finally does take pity on Ryan after his second little outburst, especially since it's followed by a particularly harsh wave, as though the ocean was bitter about the older man's whining and took it upon itself to punish him. 

The lad rolls his eyes from behind water-flecked glasses and ducks under the water, coming up right beside Ryan a second or two later like that's even a thing to fucking do. He grabs the gent by the crook in his elbow and gives him a look that's suspended in a limbo between mock-despairing and amused.  

"C'mon dumbass," he grumbles, all but dragging Ryan through the water now. Despite that, they're *still* making better progress than when the Vagabond was struggling and splashing around on his own, and soon get far enough from the shore that the waves are more soothed and the water is mostly calmed. It's here that Michael releases Ryan's arm and the lad just lets himself float, inhaling deeply before giving a slow sigh and grinning at the other soaked gangster, "You're a shit swimmer. I never realized."

"Yeah, growing up about 90 miles inland will do that to a person. I guess I'm just good enough to not need to be in the water. To be fair, though, I usually don't have to deal with Gavin."  

The gent leaned back, letting himself float on the calmer surface of the deep water. Now *this* was nice. No waves, no getting thrown around by seawater, just calm floating. He let his arms spread out, closing his eyes and letting the sun shine on his face.  

"So, is the Pacific any different from the Atlantic? I wouldn't know, I've only ever been in the one ocean, so I really don't know."

Ryan sure was chatty today. He could feel himself being open and relaxed, and with that came the niceness leftover from when he wasn't a ruthless merc for a powerful gang. Ain't that the way it goes, you finally hone one skill and then get hit with the need for others.

Michael snorts at the question and lifts his shoulders up closer to his ears, drifting on his back as well and occasionally throwing almost curious glances at the gent floating beside him. It's just... intriguing, Michael supposes. Seeing Ryan this relaxed and talkative and downright friendly. The lad reasons with himself that Ryan's just trying to keep an eye on him and help him to get back on the saddle, but that's difficult to apply to something like this.  

To just... the pair of them, held up by their torsos on the surface of the water and talking idly about anything that pops into their heads because hey, why not? 

"I don't think so? It's really all just a shit ton of water. That's basically like asking if the water in one bathtub is different from the water in another - it's all just water, not a big difference," Michael replies, grinning like an asshole the whole time and giving his head a small shake at the question he obviously finds ridiculous.

Ryan shrugs, well, as good as one can shrug while floating. He actually feels relaxed right now. For the past month he's been tense nonstop, just looking and scouting for this kid and now here he was. Floating around in the ocean like an asshole and making fun of him. It was almost like nothing ever happened. And it was nice. Just being around someone he hadn't seen in so long.  

He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something was different about Michael since he had come back. He seemed more relaxed, too. That was understandable though, since he *had* just gotten back from something really traumatizing and was now just hanging out, having a good time. Ryan felt almost like a college kid on spring break again. Huh.  

"Well I was just gonna ask if the Atlantic is what made you so salty all the time," Ryan snarked, trying to drift away from the inevitable retaliation of the lad. He closed his eyes tight and waited for the salt water to splash across his face.

Michael snorts so hard and so indignantly that he loses his balance on the surface of the water as has to flounder for a second or two before settling again, still kicking a bit more than he was before to keep himself afloat as he laughs. The knuckles of his loosely curled fist connect lightly with Ryan's upper arm, his wrist still red from where the chains had held them up for so many days. He doesn't seem too bothered by them, or at least manages to pass off their existence as something minor and unimportant. 

"Y'know I could definitely drown you out here and no one would even know," Michael points out jokingly, folding his arms behind his head and returning to his more peaceful drift. His bandages are long since soaked through, and he's sure it'll be a damn pleasure getting shouted at by Geoff for mucking them up so quickly, but he doesn't give any more of a damn than he usually might. 

He still hasn't been debriefed on everything that happened. Still doesn't know that the Crew thought him long gone and that *Ryan* slaved away the whole month searching for him. He just thinks everything is okay now, that he's safe and everyone's content with that.

The lad just doesn't even *know*.

Ryan scoffs, and starts treading water momentarily. 

"I'd like to see you win in a shootout with these sick guns," Ryan said, flexing his considerable biceps and making sarcastic "pew pew" noises. Just after that, he fell backward, splashing into the water yet again. He really was not getting the hang of this whole swimming thing at all. 

He glanced over at the carefree lad as he popped back up to the surface. The salt water was probably doing those wounds some good. He'd read that somewhere, probably. That was good, the less he felt like a walking bruise the better. Ryan knew the bad news was coming, though. 

At some point Geoff would call them back to the penthouse. The "debriefing", if he could even call it that. Most likely it would just be the others trying to coddle Michael, not realizing that he hated that sort of thing. They meant well, but sometimes they were a little too overbearing. Like a helicopter parent on game day. Ryan shuddered at the thought.

Michael, still blissfully unaware, doesn't think of any of this. He's too busy guffawing at Ryan's stupid joke and the following splashing of the floundering merc, and flips up to tread water properly before resting his palms lightly on Ryan's shoulders. He looks the Vagabond dead in the eyes, gives a mischievous smile, and after a single, confusion-filled second, tightens his grip and puts all of his weight into pushing Ryan down. Without any real leverage to keep him up, dunking Ryan is a breeze. Michael doesn't hold him under the water of course, just pushing him low enough to submerge his head a few inches before kicking back far enough for the now-rising gent to be unable to return the gesture. 

"Ryan, man, c'mon, you've gotta keep your guns *loaded*," Michael chides once the spluttering Haywood reemerges, looking altogether far too pleased with himself. He's just really damn *nimble* in the water, his frame more lithe and wiry than Ryan's, and is evidently much better suited for the aquatic territory than the haphazardly splashing older man.

Ryan chuckled slightly at Michael's lame counterjoke, he had to admit. He tried swimming after the thinner man, but found that it was no use. The water just wasn't his element. Now, once they got back on land, it would be a different story. But here and now? It was Michael's time to shine. 

Ryan reached out to grab him, managing only to grab one of the loose ends of his quickly unraveling bandages. He felt a kick to his leg, probably in revenge.  

"You wound me, good sir, with your cheaty ways. And don't just say "get good" because then I might actually start trying." Ryan tried to bluff, tried to call up some hidden swimming talent. He had none, however. He was more useless in the water than Gavin was on heists. Now that was a primo joke. He'd have to tell Geoff that at some point, he'd get a kick out of it for sure.

Michael snorts as Ryan manages to get a hold on the end of his bandage, his skillful swimming turning into more of a floundering as he does what he can to just keep the distance between himself and the gent holding onto him as wide as possible. It's half luck that Ryan just sucks ass at swimming, or else Michael's sure he'd have drug the lad's scrawny ass over and dunked him three times over in retaliation by now. 

"I wouldn't have to say get good if you weren't such a shitty swimmer in the first place," Michael throws back, his voice haughty despite the fact that the more Ryan bends his arm, the closer he tugs Michael in by his half-undone bandage. It's not helping that Mogar keeps tittering and sniggering every time Ryan flubs something up and goes under for a second, or that just his swimming technique alone is pitifully akin to a doggy paddle.

Ryan flounders one more time, unknowingly bringing the lad that much closer to him. His head breaks the surface just inches from him on the rebound from his last catch attempt. He pauses slightly, the sudden closeness throwing him off. His hand releases the bandage, scared he might be hurting its owner.  

"Sorry, didn't realize that was actually pulling you. Hope I uh, didn't hurt anything," he coughed nervously, swimming away just slightly. He looked up at the sky, seeing the sun almost fully overhead. "We should, uh, we should be getting back to shore. Gavin and the others are probably worried about you. Geoff's probably blowing up my phone right now.  

This nervousness was new. He was the fucking Vagabond, striker of fear, not some nervous...person. He was even flustered enough that his internal dialogue couldn't even come up with a good metaphor. Something about this lad, the one he had worked so hard to save, just had a hold over him. Or maybe that was why he had refused to believe that he was gone. He shook off the thought.

Michael blinks a few times at the suddenly flustered gent, hoping the chill of the water splashing his face is enough to cool down the heat he feels rising to his own cheeks and ears. It's ludicrous, honestly, completely dumb, and the lad just gives an inaudible little cough to clear his throat before nodding, "Yeah, fair enough. You, uh, didn't. Hurt anything, I mean. With the, uh, bandage... pulling."  

Great. Now they're both awkward and stupid. Michael just pushes his cracked pair of specs back up his nose and starts swimming back to shore, his ears still pink where they're visible surrounded by his messy mop of wet curls and his chest doing something sort of weird and fluttery and warm that he ignores as determinedly as he does the protest of his still-sore muscles. 

The brief trek to the car is quiet once both gangsters are back on the notably hotter sand of the still-bare patch of beach, that unexplainable but definite awkwardness lingering even now. Michael almost forgets the t-shirt he left on the beach, and it clings damply to his still-wet torso once he tugs it on, the useless, half-undone bandages left behind entirely after being shed off the rest of the way.

Ryan, once he actually managed to get to shore, came to find out that that kick from earlier had sent his t-shirt down into Davy Jones's locker. Or at least farther out to sea.

Once they got back to the car, he just pulled his jacket over his still wet arms. Probably not the best idea, but it was something. 

He checked his phone, seeing several new messages from Geoff.  

"Where are you?" 

"Ryan what the fuck, where are you" 

"I swear to god if you got kidnapped now too I'm gonna shit a brick house." 

Ryan just replied with a curt "En route" before throwing the car in gear. He drove slower this time, wanting to prolong the few moments before they would get back to the penthouse. He nervously tapped the steering wheel with his thumbs, some pop beat he'd heard on the radio, maybe.  


	5. recover from all of the damage

"Michael, there's...well, there's something you need to know," he said, breaking the awkward silence.

Michael notices the delay in speed (who wouldn't? The drop from breakneck to reasonable is a drastic one) and senses a tension that he's not entirely sure was there before or not. It seems too sudden and weighty to be anything but chronic, but at the same time, Michael has no recollection of recognizing it at any previous point. 

He does glance over at the gent behind the wheel as he pipes up, brows drawing together slightly. He hasn't bothered to pull his jacket or shoes back on yet, arms crossed over his chest (to which his t-shirt still clings wetly) and goosebumps stark along his skin as he blasts himself with the A/C in hopes of drying off quicker. He'll no doubt tug the jacket back on in the elevator back to the penthouse suite, though, stubbornly refusing to have Gavin or Geoff or anyone else see his slowly healing injuries and pin him with that sickeningly pitying look. 

"Okay?" Michael finally responds, the rumbling hum of the engine and the audible whir of the A/C beginning to blanket the pair in a verbal silence again. The merc can't help but be curious - Ryan seems suddenly serious again, and while it's a jarring and slightly worrying shift, it also definitely serves to grasp Mogar's attention.

"We didn't, I honestly don't know how to put this in a way that doesn't sound shitty, but we didn't know you were even still alive until about 5 days ago. Well, I say we, I mean the rest of the crew. They all decided to mourn and...and give up. But I didn't...I never...that's not important. The point is, the reason the baby you and fuss like mothers at the park is because you're basically Jesus. To them, you rose from the dead." 

And just like that, the truth is out. It feels bitter in Ryan's mouth. Almost like sacrilege. But it needed to be done. He knew Geoff would never be straight with the lad. He was still ashamed of himself. They all were.  

For a precious few seconds the all but silence returned. Ryan focused on the street, not able to bring himself to look in Michael's direction. They were nearing the penthouse now, not much longer.

Michael goes stiff in his seat, something in his stomach lurching upwards and making him feel suddenly nauseous. 

Dead. Everyone thought he had died. He was being locked away and tortured but he had been *alive* and nobody even had a clue. His clothes, he realizes belatedly, again feeling a wave of nausea hit more violently than any wave back on the beach had. Someone had take some of his clothes. He has more than three shirts, and he's usually pretty good with his laundry, and God he got onto Gavin for clinging to him and Geoff for fussing and they thought he was fucking *dead*- 

He takes a deep, shaky breath, exhaling more evenly, and doesn't say a word. He doesn't really look able, his complexion losing what little color it had and his eyes unfocused on the world as it blurs and flies past the fast-moving vehicle that carries both the resurrected Jersey boy and his rescuer. 

Ryan. 

Again, a bit late, it hits Michael that *Ryan* was the one that didn't give up. *Ryan* was the one who spent a month tracking Michael down all on his own, and *Ryan* was the one to infiltrate that shithole all on his own to bust the half-dead lad out proper. 

Michael's eyes finally shift, dragging away from the empty air in front of him to steal an almost incredulous glance at the man at his side.

Ryan.  

Hm.

Ryan was completely oblivious to the internal struggle going on in the lad's head. He tried to focus on driving, following all the traffic signs down to the very letter. It was extremely difficult not to look at the man beside him.  

He wanted to say something, anything, to make him feel better, but the phrasing just wasn't there. Not for the first time in his life and certainly not the last, Ryan had found himself completely lost for words. There was nothing else he could say, really.  

They arrived the penthouse garage in short order, pulling carefully into a parking spot. He had returned the car and its passenger without a scratch. Pulling the keys out of the ignition, he finally grew brave enough to steal a glance at the Jersey boy in the rearview mirror.

Michael looks... sad. Not devastated or anything, just so genuinely, completely, uncharacteristically *sorrowful* that it's downright startling. The expression rights itself into something more neutral once he stands up and out of the car, the lad clearly unaware of Ryan's finally and only briefly shifting eyes, and it doesn't return as he tugs his jacket back on and zips it up around halfway, nor as he just picks up his shoes and follows Ryan barefoot out of the garage and back into the elevator. 

His shoulders don't slump and his head doesn't sag down, but he looks stiffer and still worryingly pale. Sick, even. It isn't a suitable look for the Wild Child of Los Santos, makes him seem smaller and less explosive and fiery and so full of passion than he really is, but...  It's all he can manage.  

The elevator ride is quiet, and the doors open with a soft chime. Michael doesn't look at Ryan, eyes boring holes into his shoes like they've personally wronged him as both gangsters head back over to the Crew's shared penthouse suite.

The crew mobs them almost immediately. Caleb and Ray take careful hold of Michael's arms and lead him away, presumably to clean up his bandages. Ryan, on the other hand, gets a stern talking to from Geoff that he can barely even bring himself to listen to.  

Snippets of it sometimes break through his pseudo-trance, but its unuseful things like "you're an irresponsible prick", "answer your fucking phone when I call you", and "where the fuck is your shirt, is this a new look or are you just being an idiot today?"  

Ryan interrupts with a single sentence, "I told him the truth, Geoff." 

Geoff stops talking, seemingly dumbfounded. He waves Ryan off, before retreating into his bedroom and slamming the door.

Michael doesn't whine or snap as the other lads and Caleb fuss over him, his head staying lowered and his silence apparently more worrying than his absence. He just murmurs over and over "I'm fine" and "Honestly bois, nothing happened" and "I'm not any more hurt than I already was, promise". 

He only glances up once, at Ryan, after hearing the sharp, aggressive snap of a closing door. He winces at the sight of the Vagabond left cold-shouldered and alone and looks down at his shoes again, something he hasn't felt in a long ass time bubbling up in his gut - guilt. 

He insists on going to his room, and then a while later on being alone, just because he's tired though and he promises the other lads he'll hang out more after getting some shut eye, alright?  

He doesn't sleep, though. He just sort of... lays there. 

Dead. Dead. Dead. They'd all thought he was fucking *dead*. Christ. Michael rolls onto his side, blinking hard and taking deep breaths. He's a grown ass man and he *knows* how stupid this is, but… 

But he keeps imagining it. Keeps seeing his best friends receiving the news in his mind's eye, their initial reactions, the way they'd cope - or wouldn't at all, would explode and destroy and crack entirely and- 

And Michael's pillow is wet now and he hates himself for it with every fiber in his goddamn being.

Ryan paces the floor of his room over and over again. At this point it's a compulsion, not an act of his own free will. He had fucked up, and majorly. Why did he ever think it was a good idea to let himself, literally the most socially awkward out of the entire crew, tell Michael what had happened.  

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Ryan couldn't believe how fucking dumb he'd been. He'd made it seem like the others didn't care. But they had, in their own misguided way. They'd been clinging so hard to the Michael they knew that they didn't stop to think about the real person.  Just like they were doing now. He could hear a glass shatter in the room next to his. It thumped against the plaster menacingly, almost threatening to hit him.  

He had to talk to Michael, he just had to. He needed to make everything right again.  

Peeking out the door of his room, he looked down the hall toward Michael's. The hall was empty, so he strode quietly down it, keeping his footsteps muffled.

He stopped just before knocking on the door, his hand still raised in anticipation. He was probably the last person the lad wanted to see right now.

Michael sighs tiredly where he lays sprawled out on his too-sterile bed, woozy but at least not fucking crying anymore. God knows he looks like shit, though. He's thirsty as hell too, figures he'll sneak out to grab some water or a beer or something before holing away for another little while. He doesn't want to bother fixing the way he knows his hair is sticking up sharply on one side, and just tugs his hood on before scooting off the bed. With another deep breath and a few fingers rubbing at one of his tired eyes from behind his cracked glasses, he pads his way over to the door and rests his free hand on the knob, pulling it open. 

His hand drops from his face at the sight of Ryan filling up his doorway with one hand lifted and ready to knock, brows lifting fractionally and a solid second or two of unsure silence passing before he manages an almost convincing, "Hey Skeletor. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

 Ever snarky. Ever stubborn. Ever determined to appear okay when he's anything but.

Ryan really has got the wrong idea, though. Michael's far from thinking the Crew didn't care about him when they thought he croaked - he was just regretting the time his friends had to spend mourning a lad they thought beyond saving when he was still fighting tooth and nail to protect them with everything he had. 

Ryan, though. It always seems to come back to Ryan. Ryan who looked for him, Ryan who got him out, Ryan who gave him closure, Ryan who let Michael be okay.  

Ryan who told Michael the truth when, the younger merc realizes now, no one else would. 

He's kind of regretting his greeting at this point, wishing he'd said something - anything, really - less shitty, but he's made his bed and it's time to lie in it, he supposes.

"I just, uh, just wanted to...apologize, I guess. I kinda dropped an emotional atom bomb and then stepped away from the blast." Ryan scratched at the back of his neck awkwardly, his gaze suddenly becoming very interested in looking everywhere except at Michael.  

"I didn't mean to be so...so blatant with it I guess. I should've waited a couple days, let you get back in the swing of things first. I guess I'm just here to blabber like a moron." 

Ryan stole a quick glance at the lad in front of him. He looked tired, almost like he'd been crying. Those wounds must hurt more than he was letting on. Either that or Caleb wasn't giving him enough pain medicine. He'd have a word with him about it in the morning, maybe rob a pharmacy before breakfast if he needed meds they didn't have.

Michael can't even begin to stop the expression of surprise that steals over his face and, as one of the biggest blabbermouths on the Crew, replies before giving his words basically any thought whatsoever, "What? Don't be stupid." 

He registers a split second later exactly what he's said and inwardly kicks himself, scrambling to make himself clearer while hoping he hasn't already hurt Ryan's feelings, "I just mean, I'm not upset at you or anything. I guess that was a lot to let sink in all at once, sure, but there wasn't any point in putting it off. Plus, I'm pretty sure I'd never have found out if Geoff had his way," he adds, albeit slightly more quietly. There's no feasible way Geoff could hear the pair's quiet from his room down the hall (which still bursts irregularly with the occasion shattering sounds that often accompany the mustachioed man's temper tantrums), but one can never be too careful. 

Then, an almost embarrassed sort of energy seems to settle itself over Michael, his hand slipping back between his hoodie and his purpled neck and scratching at the short baby hairs that rest at his nape as he adds considerably less smoothly, "And, uh. Thanks, actually. For looking for me even though, uh, y'know, and after so long- and getting me out of that place, and-" 

He cuts himself off before he can go into some kind of too-exposing emotional spiel about everything he's recognized Ryan to have done for him, finishing with a lame little mumble off, "Uh. Everything, basically. Thanks for everything."

"No problem, Michael," the nervous gent replied. He paused for a second, realizing he had used the lad's first name. He almost never called any of the crew by their first names. It caused attachments, and attachments hurt when people knew just what strings to pull.  

"So are you...are you alright? You don't look too good. Is Caleb taking good care of you?" Ryan muttered, bringing up the courage to look at the bruised face in front of him. He looked different in this light, more tired, more resigned. He looked like a normal person instead of Los Santos's Wild Child.  

And for some reason, that made the gent all the more thrown off. He could deal with talking to Mogar, the scourge of the west coast. It was talking to Michael, the quiet Jersey kid, that sent him for a loop. But it was Michael that he had worked so hard to rescue. It was Michael that had waited in that hell for a month.

Not Mogar, Michael.

Michael feels another little jolt of surprise as he, too, catches and notes Ryan using his first name. He can't remember the last time that happened, the gent infamous amongst the Crew for coming up with any bullshit nickname remotely feasible as a substitute for proper titles. It's... not bad, though, by any means, to hear Ryan address him that way. Just uncharacteristic, maybe. 

"Yeah, I'm fine. I was just gonna get some water before hitting the hay, y'know. Gotta get that bed rest if I don't want Geoff to mount my freaking head on his wall," he stuffs his hands back into the pockets of his jacket and shrugs halfheartedly as he talks, sounding vaguely forlorn but distinctly resigned to his bedridden fate at this point. 

The Jersey boy might feel like he's just being locked up yet again, but he's also got a bed and his friends and he isn't being *tortured* and *beaten*, so he doesn't think it too nice to complain. He knows he won't last but another couple days of this max before going slightly stir-crazy in the too-small space of the jam packed suite, but he'll at least try to make it that long before snapping. It's genuinely hard for a lad with the amount of energy that little Michael's got, but what else can he do?

"Yeah, it's good to be all hydrated up, especially after being in saltwater for a long time. I think I read that somewhere. I guess, uh, I guess I'll just be going then. So that you can go get your water without me standing around being fussy. G'night, Mogar."  

Ryan backs away slightly, not quite leaving entirely. He wanted to say something more. Something more than a dumb bit of advice from some homemaker magazine. But, words weren't the most sharp weapons in the Vagabond's arsenal.  

Words, words, words. The quiet merc's worst nightmare. He hated saying things wrong, hated to make things worse when he talked. Hated that he had left things unsaid. For months, he had kept things to himself. They weren't important at the time. Just stupid human emotions.  

And then the lad had gone missing, and the words had become burning knives in his throat. Trapped, with nowhere to go. But he was here now, safe and sound. And the words still wouldn't put themselves together. For a month straight, the name had dominated his thoughts day and night, and now he could barely bring himself to say it.  

Michael.

Ryan. 

The enigma that Michael thought he understood before everything went to shit. The man he genuinely thought he'd figured out, who was just quiet and aggressive and a damn good merc but little else to a once indifferent Jones.

Ryan, who's now curious and intriguing and somehow keeps drawing Michael's gaze back to him without doing a single goddamn thing.

*Ryan.* 

Michael clears his throat a bit and bounces on his heels once or twice, nodding and giving a little flash of his crooked, one-dimpled smile, "Yeah, 'night Skeletor." 

It's... all Michael's really got. Ryan's lingering (Michael's not an idiot, he's had plenty of chance to start walking off by now) but he's also not speaking and Mogar doesn't know what to say himself so he just steps out from his bedroom and pads quietly down the hall, uncharacteristically silent and careful as he passes Geoff's quieting room. He doesn't linger in the kitchen, just nabbing a couple of cold waters from the fridge and kicking the door gently shut behind him with his heel.

Ryan slinks back to his room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He could hear Geoff through the wall, sobbing almost silently, but loud enough in the silent apartment. A second later, and the clinking of a bottle against a scotch glass revealed the truth behind the noises. Another second, and then a smashing sound. Another broken glass. He had to wonder how many Geoff had stockpiled in there.  

Ryan felt bad, horrible even, which was a new feeling for the normally morally grey Vagabond. He felt bad that Geoff was reacting so badly. He felt bad that Michael felt crushed by the others. He felt bad that it had taken him so long. So long to find him. So long to tell Geoff and the others that Michael was alive. He was alive and within rescuing distance, but it still had taken time.  

There was just so much wasted time. He leaned back onto the bed, his eyes closing in frustration. He had only intended to rest, but soon fell into a light, fitful sleep. The Vagabond had been haunted with nightmares for the past month. He could never remember much about them, just a singular concept that connected them all. Failure. To speak, to save, to care for. It haunted him like the ghost of Christmas past, except much less like a children's cartoon.

Once back in his room, Michael manages to drink most of the first water bottle (taking it slowly, sip by sip, because he honestly feels too ill to do much more) before nodding off. His sleep is a bit more still, but it's no better than Ryan in any other aspect.  

Once again his mind's eye conjures up a horrible, blurred recollection of that hellhole, the floors and walls splattered with his own blood and his entire body throbbing.

But this time it's worse. This time there's someone with him, someone with a somber, piercing blue gaze and a horribly pained grimace being kicked and punched and punished because Michael didn't cooperate. It's his fault, it's all his fault, and he cries out for Ryan as the Vagabond goes suddenly limp, oh God, oh God, if he'd only just- 

Michael jerks awake in a cold sweat, his cheeks wet and one leg of his glasses leaving a thin imprint over his temple where it had dug into the soft skin there. He struggles to breathe for a few seconds, clutching at his t-shirt and taking in raspy breaths before slowly beginning to calm down.  He doesn't go back to sleep. Doesn't think he could if he tried.  

Instead he digs up a pack of cigarettes from his nightstand and their accompanying lighter, and slips as quietly as he can from his room. He treads carefully down the hall wincing as a section of the floorboards creaks under his weight and quickly shifting himself off of the spot. He hurries along after lingering for a second or two and hearing no approaching steps, counting his lucky stars and pushing open the glass door to the balcony just enough to squeeze himself through. He flops down into one of the patio couches that can be found there, shaking a single cigarette from his pack and flicking his lighter to life once he's got it held between his chapped lips. 

Michael's needed a smoke for a *long* time.

Ryan, still back in his room, is unaware of the lad's troubles. His subconscious is punishing him in his mind. 

He wakes up, one hand tied back, above his head. Though, when he looks, he sees nothing holding him. Then, the room plunges into pitch blackness. The sounds of industrial machines fill his ears.  

And then the visuals start. A dark cell. The tang of metallic blood in the air. A dark figure steps past Ryan, through him, even, and into the room. The limp figure chained to the wall notices his presence, looking up with a little trouble.   The details slowly came into focus. The curly hair, the freckled face looking up with a look of pure determination and unbridled rage despite the conditions he was being held in.  

Michael.  

The dark figure pulls a gun, seemingly from thin air, and puts it against the lad's head. Ryan strains against his invisible bonds, trying desperately to get the scene to stop. Just make it stop.  

A shot, and the body crumbles to the ground, falling into the shadow of the dream. The shooter turns, ever so slowly, and points the gun at Ryan. Then everything shatters. Nothing but darkness now, a reprieve from the nightmare.

Michael is an idiot. 

He's cold and shivering on the balcony but refuses to go inside now, the bite of the crisp, numbing air against his skin more of a relief than most of what he's experienced since his escape. And if he gets a cold, well, how much worse off will he *really* be? 

No, he just... Sits, knees tucked up to his chest and chin resting in the tiny valley between them. His hand never drifts far from his mouth, the burn of smoke and fire in his chest warm his core even as his fingers and nose prickle from the cold. It's really not *that* chilly out, but the penthouse suite's also pretty high up, and the sky grew overcast at some point between now and his outing with Ryan. 

Michael gives an almost frustrated little noise, just barely resisting the urge to bite the filter of his cigarette and instead just taking a particularly sharp drag from it. This leaves him coughing slightly, his breaths like ash and sparks and heat and rage. 

Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. All at once, the gent seems to be the focus of everything, the center of Michael's sense of safety and of his worst fears and every other damn thing. Surely there's some feasible explanation, a more legitimate reason for the lingering of the Haywood in the Jones' mind's eye, the way Mogar can't seem to stop remembering Vagabond's laughter and chatter from the beach, and the way he'd grown suddenly, startlingly quiet after unknowingly pulling Michael just a bit too-

Michael nearly drops his cigarette, his slackened fingers catching the forgotten smoke just before it can slip free of his grasp. He gives himself a small shake and wonders, amazed, at just what the hell's going on with him. 

Michael pretends that he doesn't already know.  

Michael takes another drag from his smoke. 

Michael's mouth overflows with smoke, the heavy air swirling about his face and stinging his eyes and burning his chest with all the danger and heat of a dragon's maw.

The Vagabond wakes suddenly, free from the nightmare that had held him captive for the past hour. He glanced over at the clock on his bedside table. 3:15 am. Great. Looks like he wouldn't be getting more than an hour or two of sleep tonight.

He stretches, sitting upright. The sky outside almost shone, the grey clouds reflecting the Los Santos lights. The city below buzzed lazily, cars driving on the empty streets occasionally. Ryan wondered momentarily where they were going at this time of night.

He stumbled sleepily to his door, trying to be quiet. He could hear Geoff snoring on the other side of the thin wall. He'd probably fallen asleep in his chair.

Passing through the hall on the way to the kitchen, he saw the lad sitting alone on the patio. He was smoking a cigarette alone, looking out forlornly at the horizon. Ryan felt his heart jump into his throat when he saw him.

He stood there, like a deer in the headlights, before shaking his head slightly and continuing to the kitchen. He wanted to pretend like nothing was different now. Like nothing had ever happened. But that just wasn't possible anymore, and he knew that deep down.

Michael, with the thick glass of the balcony door still barely opened, doesn't hear Ryan's groggy shuffling. He just... finishes off his cigarette, blowing out the last lungful of smoke as he flicks the butt over the lip of the railing. He watches it arc above the metal barrier between himself and the empty sky, still crimson and bright, and fall out of sight. His cheek shifts to rest on his knee, and he lets his shoulders curve downwards slightly as the muscles loosen and uncoil.

It's awful. Being caught in this limbo of confusion and frustration and something Michael can't identify (he can, he can, but he doesn't dare) is fucking *awful* and exhausting and more than the lad's ever had to handle before. Life until now has just been a series of stunts and heists and adrenaline rushes and celebrations, with little time for suffering in between.

Michael can't *function* in this kind of peacefulness. He's never been able to.

Ryan tries to sneak back to his room with a glass of water, but once again finds himself...almost enraptured by the sight of the Jersey kid sitting by himself out on the balcony. It would be a picturesque sight if it didn't seem so damn sad.

He contemplated going out and saying something, trying to cheer him up, but decided against it. Michael probably just needed some time to think. Time to get back to normalcy.

Their normalcy wasn't this, though. Their normalcy was explosions and danger. Their normal was the opposite of normal. Maybe he just needed a new taste of all that.

With a renewed determination, Ryan ditched his glass on the counter and strode to the glass door. He swung it open, poking his head out into the cold morning air.

"You feel up to a little dynamite drive-by up in the hills?"

As if manifested right out of Michael's thoughts, Ryan bursts suddenly into existence as though that's even a thing to do - naturally and easily and without issue or fault. Michael finds he barely even startles at the sudden sound of the gent's deep, almost soothing voice, just lifts his head and twists around a bit where he sits to blink up at the Vagabond. 

Ryan's words do it, though. They split Michael's melancholy right in half as he cracks a dimpled smile and tucks his smokes back into his pocket, standing up and slipping back inside with a casual, "Yeah, as always." 


	6. get myself in fighting trim

It's almost normal, almost *convincing*, the way Michael just swings right back into his usual self. The shift between harried and energetic is so fluid and swift that it's hard to even register. It just feels like Michael didn't change at all, as though he's always been present and consistent and the same. 

He doesn't linger on it, just focuses on tugging his shoes on and tip-toeing out of the suite, Ryan leading the way and the rest of the Crew still thankfully asleep.

Ryan hits the door close button after Michael gets on, sending the elevator down.

"What car do you think we should take? I'm thinking we take Ray's stupid little smart car. No one will suspect us in that thing, but if you wanna go more for speed, we could take one of my roadsters."

Ryan blathered on about the cars but the real thing on his mind was how many times he and the lad had been in this elevator in the past day since he had been back. Every time they were here, it was almost as if the metallic cabin had just amplified the nervousness in Ryan's gut.

Maybe it was the closeness, or just being in an enclosed space with him, but Ryan certainly felt different every time those doors slide shut.

The moment Ryan buckles in is the moment Michael peels out of the garage and drifts out into the street, slipping impossibly through gaps in traffic that seem just barely too narrow and taking turns with sharp and precise skill. Michael's always been downright skillful behind the wheel, and he gives an excited holler as the Bifta drifts right off the edge of an overpass, only to land on all four tires again, skid briefly, and shoot off again. 

The kid's in his element, his hair whipped back from his face and ears by the wind and his clothes either pressed thin against his frame or pulled up by the buffeting gusts of air. He can feel all worries get pulled into the back of his mind, his primary focus being getting himself and Ryan in the hills as soon as possible. This means shortcuts and speeding galore - two of his favorite things! 

"Get some of those charges ready, Skeletor!" Michael has to shout slightly to be heard over the wind, and his eyes flit briefly over to Ryan. They're filled with an almost manic energy, his grin crinkling them slightly in the corners and making him look somehow *warm*, even like this.

Ryan grinned back, glad to see a genuine smile on the lad's face. He pulls one of the charges out of the bag, and primes it. The timer only beeps twice before it's flung out the window, sticking onto the windshield of a passing car. 

As they zoom past, the car erupts into a column of flame, flipping up into the air. It lands on the concrete with a loud crash, and cars swerve madly to avoid hitting it. Ryan tosses another charge backward for good luck, and it explodes above the swerving cars midair, raining fire and shrapnel down on the innocent drivers. 

"Got one!" he yells over the whipping winds as they drive further down the road. "Pick a target, Jersey boy! And before the cops start to show up! I want to save some for them!" 

He looks over at Michael, an almost psychotic grin on the gent's face. If there was one thing he loved more than shooting things, it was blowing things up. Especially if there was a chance they could attract a news chopper. Those were always so much fun to destroy.

Michael feels his chest shake with the boom of the explosions behind them, his pulse racing and andrenaline high already making him giddy with the thrill of the crime. His brown eyes seem to burn as they skid onto a fresh street and the early morning sunlight hits him, lighting his freckles and the tips of his hair with a searing orange glow. 

"Ooh, dude, get that truck, get that truck!" He crows over the rumbling roar of the engine and the howling cries of the wind, pressing harder on the gas and zooming up alongside the truck in question - a massive, slow-moving eighteen-wheeler. 

Or, in Michael's eyes, a magnificent explosion just waiting - *begging* - to happen. 

He pulls back off the gas, letting the car's momentum carry it as Ryan preps the charge and tosses it. The moment it's out the window, Michael's kicking the engine back into gear, zipping ahead and watching the rearview mirror. 

The colossal explosion it reflects shines red and yellow in the Jersey lad's cracked specs, and he looks like Christmas surprised him and came early.

Ryan looked back at the flaming fireball that used to be the truck, grinning wildly. He hadn't had this much fun in a long time. Not even at the beach yesterday, though that was pretty fun.  

Ryan tossed another charge into the open window of a passing car, watching the driver panic madly. She tried to throw the charge back out, but it went off before she could get it past the glass. It exploded with a boom, shattering the windshield of the car next to her and sending it careening into the median.  

"That was a good one, yeah?" Ryan asked. He had thought it was a great toss, 9/10. He held out an unprimed charge in the space between Michael and himself, wordlessly urging the lad to take it and throw it. A little bit of early morning destruction was always tons of fun.

Michael all but beams at Ryan as he lands the explosive in a passing car, barking a gleeful laugh at the panicked woman inside before speeding ahead of her and leaving her burning car in his dust. The Bifta seems to respond to Michael's whims more than his actions, every turn fluid and heart-pounding and the slightest shifts of the wheel applied almost without thought by the driver, skilled beyond his years. 

"Fucking incredible," Michael confirms, taking the charge from Ryan with one hand and cracking a devious grin. He steers with his right hand and holds the charge at the ready with his left, biting his bottom lip and furrowing his brows in concentration as he charges the explosive, lets it beep two or three times, and lobs it into the bed of a passing truck. The driver doesn't know what hit him, and then he doesn't know anything at all, and Michael crows at the perfectly arced shot before speeding up at the sounds of sirens on their tail. 

"They don't even have *choppers* on us yet," Michael chimes giddily, glancing up into his rearview mirror and swerving sharply to the left. A cop car rockets towards and skids right past them, slamming into a minivan after missing its intended target. The Los Santos Police Department have always been their own special brand of crazy, and it shows.

"Try to hit the next one," Michael yells over the wind and sirens and lingering screeches of panicked drivers and poorly maneuvered vehicles, his voice tinged with excitement and the thrill a spree like this is guaranteed to bring.

Ryan looks into the bag, counting the remaining charges. Leaving the last one for Michael, there were two left in the bag. 

"I'm gonna do something crazy," he yells, unclicking his seatbelt. He takes an unprimed charge in each hand, then turns around in his seat, swaying slightly as Michael swerves to avoid a cop car. He puts one foot onto the seat of the Bifta, then then the other. He braces the backs of his hands against the rollcage, and lifts himself up until he's standing up against the wind, and facing about six angry cops.  

"Nobody fucks with us!" he almost screams at the cars, the rush of adrenaline bringing a little bit of the Vagabond out in him. He primes the charges and launches them at the cadre of cars. They stick to the windows of the left and rightmost cars and explode, launching the two cars into each other. The cars behind them try to ramp over the mess and just get stuck, two more cars crashing before they all dissolve into a huge fireball.  

The explosion almost knocks Ryan out of the car, but he hold tight to the bars before dropping back into his seat and clicking in the seatbelt. He was breathing heavily, the rush of almost dying plus the, frankly, fucking awesome stunt he just pulled was going to his head, and quick.

Michael gives a cheer as Ryan, gripping onto the roll cage of the Bifta, bellows viciously back at the gaggle of cops hot on their tail. The sound raises goosebumps over Michael's arms, and he whips his head around to watch the cataclysmic explosion Ryan causes, eyes shining with the reflection of the fireball and smile wicked and wide as he whips front-ways in his seat again. 

He can't help the way his hand pulls briefly off of the steering wheel though, Ryan's temporary loss of balance visible from his peripheral vision and forcing him to reflexively reach over and grab at the older man's wind-whipped shirt. He releases his hold on the fabric just as fast, though, once he realizes the gent's regained his equilibrium, focusing now on rocketing at top speed down narrow streets and shooting (with a terrifyingly high risk of failure) through barely large enough alleyways to avoid the choppers (*finally*) in pursuit. 

"You got anything for those, or should I head to a hidey-hole to wait out these stars?" Michael shouts to Ryan, barely audible now with the whipping of the helicopter blades above only adding to the already significant mess of volume and sound and chaos surrounding them.

"I got one charge left. Nothing for the choppers, though! Let's head for the train, the next one won't run until 5!"  

Ryan took the last charge and chucked it out the window at the single remaining cop car tailing them. It exploded in a shower of sparks, causing one of the choppers to back off just slightly. It would have to be enough for now.  

As they sped through the crowded streets, Ryan couldn't help but feel almost giddy. I mean, did you see that toss? Perfection, absolute perfection. If IGN rated throws of explosives, that shit would get a 10/10, no bribing required.  

The sound of the chopper behind them was getting slightly more faint due to Michael's masterful driving. Even just being back in the saddle, he was way better than Ryan at driving cars.

"Got it!" Michael replies shortly, taking a sharp left and redirecting their path to intersect with the train tracks. It'll take a little while to get to them, since they are several miles away, but his skillful driving and (mostly) perfect memory of the main Los Santos streets make the ride an easy one. 

He never slows down, and certainly never stops, taking every jump he can and smiling gleefully at the swoop his stomach gives every time the Bifta's tires leave the ground.  

"Your aim back there was fucking top," Michael says just to cut the silence thin, glancing over at Ryan and giving him one of his patented lopsided smiles. He looks infinitely more calm than he did back at the penthouse, his hands draped loosely over the top of the wheel with his pursuit vehicles trailing so far behind, and sits back comfortably in his seat, the engine purring more steadily now that he's keeping the Bifta more straight and the wind pulling lightly at the small, spiraling curls around his face.

Ryan almost beams with delight. Michael thought his aim was top. That was cool, that was a cool thing that was happening. He almost felt like a giddy highschooler at the prom. Except in this case the prom was an extremely dangerous joyride, and the limo was a glorified dune buggy. 

He looked over at Michael and immediately felt his heart start beating faster than it had been before. He looked like a greek god in the soft light of the rising sun, his hair flowing in the wind like something straight out of an Italian classic. Ryan had to admit, the lad had a certain charm to him.  

He smiled to himself, just slightly, as the two drove toward the tunnel, the threat of the police suddenly melting into the background. He could only barely hear them, and didn't even register their presence anymore. All that mattered to him in that moment was Michael.

Michael lets that final bit of his tension melt away as he and Ryan finally plunge into the safe darkness of the tunnel, several minutes of tense driving and careful maneuvering finally paying off as the police force lose sight of them and are forced to retreat. Michael flicks his headlight beams into high, the glow just enough to show the cocky smile on his prideful little mug. 

The Jersey lad feels like he should say something - *anything", really, to break the sudden quiet - but at the same time like he doesn't necessarily *have* to. The silence that blankets over himself and Ryan is a comfortable, companionable one, and Michael's content enough to just listen to the hum of the Bifta and watch the poorly-lit tunnel walls fly past their sides and overhead. 

Ryan really does seem to be the center of Michael's whole world these last few days. He's barely even seen the rest of the Crew beyond those few hours he spent with his fellow lads, and all of that was just their clingy fretting. Ryan's still treating him normally, but still with respect to his injuries, and isn't keeping him penned up in the penthouse like some kind of animal. 

And he's just... indescribable. Difficult and intricate and alluring in ways Michael never fully realized before, and now isn't sure how to deal with.

Ryan shifted in his seat slightly, stuffing the now empty bag back behind his headrest. He swipes the loose hair out of his face, the blonde pieces falling back into place easily. The miracles of straight hair, he supposed.  

Taking a brief second to think, Ryan finally realized what had been gnawing at the back of his mind since Michael had come home.  

Michael was...just so ethereal that Ryan had never been able to really know the real him. But here and now, and yesterday, he felt like he was finally getting to know the real lad. Not the Mogar he thought he had known, but *Michael*.  

Jersey boy Michael that knew how to master the ocean like a professional. The Michael that wasn't afraid to take on a seemingly infinite number of cop cars, armed with nothing but a couple explosives charges. The Michael whose eyes shone with glee as a giant fireball engulfed an eighteen wheeler.  

That was the Michael he wish he had known all these years. That was the Michael he'd been missing out on. He wanted, needed even, to say something. Needed to say anything.  

"Michael, I..." he trailed off. What could he say that wouldn't just drive the lad away?

Michael's fingers twitch slightly over the wheel as Ryan's voice suddenly and awkwardly splits the silence thin, but then it's descending again and the gent seems lost for words which *really* only serves to make little Wild Child Jones more curious than anything else. 

"You what?" He quips back simply, feigning nonchalance even as his eyes dart over to steal a glance of Ryan. 

He's surprised by the way his pulse skips at the sight of the Vagabond, face seeming to glow in the brights of the Bifta's headlights and hair trailing down into his face like it belongs there, practically begging to be brushed back with a gentle knuckle or two. 

Woah, wait, what? Michael snaps his eyes back forwards, suddenly glad for the darkness of the tunnel as his ears begin to heat up and the clumping of tires against train tracks as his heart seems to pound right in his ears. It's just the quiet, he reasons stupidly with himself, or all the sudden time together or anything else really because there's no way- for *Ryan*, of all the- it's just *completely*- 

Though... why not, really?  

Michael gives himself a little shake, a mental scolding. He and Ryan have just started to hang out and he's apparently decided to, what. Get feelings for the guy? His stomach swoops and he realizes that's exactly what all this inner-fluttering and flustering's been about. The poor lad prays wordlessly that it's not been obvious, that he's not already made a huge fucking fool of himself - he literally *just* got friendly with Ryan, this is *so fucking ridiculous*.

Ryan decided that now was not the time for second thoughts. No time to think about it, because if he thought about it he would think about how soon this was. They had only just really started talking to each other, face to face, *yesterday*. The lad would think he was crazy, that maybe him being labelled the psycho of the group was correct.  

Did he say he wasn't going to think about it? He meant he was going to think about it a lot and possibly overthink it. Then again, what was the worst that could happen? 

"I really...I've really liked spending time with you, since you got back." That was a backdown from what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell Michael just how important he was, and how much he appreciated him. That would probably be too much to say so soon.  

He could almost feel the blood pumping through his veins as he moved infinitesimally closer, just far enough to be close, but not close enough to seem like he was trying to make a move on him. Well, he kind of was, but that was beside the point.

Michael's train of thought is derailed as Ryan speaks up again, sounding almost nervous and making the lad's chest do somersaults. Every time Michael thinks he's got Ryan figured out, another curveball seems to fly out as if from nowhere that knocks his understanding askew yet again. 

The light signaling the end of the tunnel becomes faintly visible, a pale yellow glow shining over the tracks like a beacon, guiding Michael towards the exit better than his headlights ever could. He has to be careful with his own phrasing now - this is something of a dangerous subject when his recent revelation is taken into consideration.  

"Yeah, I- it's been nice just hanging with you," he responds, flubbing the tiniest bit out of nerves and weakly feigning nonchalance at the fact. The darkness will only help to hide the freckled young man's warmed face for so much longer, and he's hoping it'll either fade by then (though there isn't much chance of that, what with the new topic of sentiment Ryan's just brought up) or that he can find a suitable explanation for the flush if he's asked about it. 

It's just... the adrenaline from the job, or- or, uh... shit, Michael is so fucked. It's incredible - he can handle explosions, gunshots, weeks of prolonged torture, but the chance of fucking this up and making everything awkward? Easily the worst thing of all.

Ryan feels his heart jump at Michael's words. His face heats up, unknowingly matching Michael's own. He stared forward, watching the bright light inching ever further closer to the car as it sped down the tunnel. He suddenly decided that now was the time. It was now or never. This moment wouldn't last forever. In fact, the moment was slowly slipping away with the rising of the sun. 

"Michael, I really...I really like you, as juvenile as that may sound. And I don't just mean as a friend, or a colleague, or even a partner in crime. Literal crime, seeing as we just committed like seven vehicular homicides. No, but I mean, I really...I missed you for so long, and now you're here, you're home and I can't keep pretending that I want everything to be the same anymore." 

Ryan babbled on, too scared to look at the lad as he spoke. There, now the words were out in the open. After so long, the knives in his throat were finally gone, now hanging in the air like a cloud of smoke. The Vagabond could handle outrunning the cops, and almost falling out of a car speeding down the hallway, but the second he heard Michael's voice, he almost melted with anxiety.

Michael thinks his heart may very well burst from his chest. 

He gives an almost hysterical little bark of a laugh at the half-assed joke Ryan tosses at him (and thinks fleetingly that it's a miracle of some sort that Ryan didn't flub up "vehicular homicide"), but otherwise stays quiet throughout the Vagabond's emotional spillage of a confession, his index fingers rapping nervously against the back of the steering wheel that they curl around and cling loosely to. 

It's... a lot. Maybe too much, maybe too fast, but Michael's never been one to do anything with much care and just takes a shallow, slightly trembling breath before replying as steadily as he can manage, "Yeah, I'd... I'd be a stone-cold liar if I said I felt any different. I just mean, uh... fuck, y'know, you sort of already said basically anything I could, so. Same here, yeah," he finishes lamely, inwardly kicking himself and visibly reddening. 

Visibly, because they're almost at the end of the tunnel, and the sunlight's beginning to bathe both of the nervous, inarticulate idiots in its pale morning glow. Michael chances a glance over and knows himself to be telling the truth. Ryan looks far too beautiful to the Wild Child just then for anything he's said or felt so far to be a lie.

Ryan breathes a quiet sigh of relief as Michael talks. He can feel the weight lifted off his shoulders. Michael felt the same way. It's fast, at least on the Wild Child's part, but Ryan's been harboring these feelings for such a long time that he doesn't stop to think. Live fast, die hard, as the famous song goes. Or at least, he hoped, just the "live fast" part.  

"Okay, okay good. I was really scared I was fucking up kinda bad there for a second." The Vagabond feels immediate regret after saying that. What kind of socially awkward loser says "okay, cool" when dealing with serious feelings? I mean, he wasn't known for his exceptional social skills, but still.  

He looks over at Michael, sees the early morning sunlight playing off his auburn curls; sees how flushed his freckled face looks, and just knows that he made the right decision. He holds tightly to the Bifta's roll-cage as the still speeding car hits a bump in the pavement.

Michael gives a laugh that's more breath than sound at Ryan's audibly relieved reply, uncoiling in his own seat and relaxing into it again as the tension seems to vanish the nearer to the sunlight the pair grows. The shift in the atmosphere is definitely there, even subtly, as is inevitable with such an exchange, but not *everything* has changed, and that's a comfort. They're still just Michael and Ryan, Mogar and the Vagabond.  

"Join the club," Michael replies simply, voice tinged with a small smile that he can't repress now. The Bifta bursts from the tunnel in a flurry of racing tires and gusting winds, Michael turning off of the tracks at the first opportunity to work his way around and back into the city.  

"Is Geoff gonna piss at me being out again?" He adds almost reluctantly after another few moments of quiet, the sound of the car reduced to the purr of the engine now that the ground's evened out from the bumpy, rough train tracks to smooth cement.

"He's probably still hungover from yesterday. If he gets pissy about it you just gotta tell him the real deal. He'll get over the whole "mama bear" phase eventually. I mean, it's Geoff, how long can he stay mad? Anyway, I'm sure we can handle a little yelling, right?" 

Ryan leaned back in his seat, resting his head against the cool leather. Nothing had changed, and everything had changed at the same time. The new atmosphere was liberating. After so long of being tense around the lad, he could finally relax. Everything was fine, no need to panic.  

The sun glinted off the condensation accumulating on the warm metal of the car, causing the whole car to shine like something out of a Vinewood movie. If this wasn't real life, Ryan might have thought that was symbolism of some sort. Something to do with Michael being an angel, maybe. Yeah, that'd probably work.

Michael sniggers at the reply and nods, loosening up again and pressing a bit more firmly onto the accelerator. Of course they can handle Geoff - the mustachioed gent wouldn't be himself if he weren't pissed about something or other, and every member of the Crew knows both how to not take it personally and how to handle the irate fatherly grump of a man.

Geoff is a ways away right now, though, along with the other lads and gents and cops and work. Right here is just Michael and Ryan, riding along in the wind-blown Bifta with air-brushed hair and pinkened cheeks (be it from the crisp temperatures or fond atmosphere or both, who can say?).

Right here is *everything*. It's important, suddenly, to Michael that this be recognized, and he's almost (very) wont to say something about it to Ryan. He doesn't (as per usual), too worried about sounding dumb or generally embarrassing himself in front of the gent whose opinion has suddenly become extremely important to him.

"You know, we don't have to go back right now, right?" Ryan looked over at the lad. He saw his hands nervously tapping at the steering wheel. There was obviously something else trapped in that head of his. 

And, to be honest, Ryan didn't want to go back to the penthouse that soon either. The wind in his hair and Michael by his side were enough for him. He wished these fleeting moments, just the two of them, could last forever. 

The crew didn't have plans for today, anyway. Soon, they would be fully back into the swing of things. Robbing folks blind, evading cops. Just generally being the worst things to ever happen to the town of Los Santos. But, for now, there were no time constraints, no rules. Just time and wherever the car could take them. 

"We could just, drive. Wherever you want to go, forget Geoff, just drive for a while. Just the two of us." He hoped he was reading the situation right.

Michael's eyes flick over to Ryan, widened slightly and lingering as he continues down the straight desert road he turned onto. Maybe a second or two passes like this, brown eyes on blue ones and the Bifta's interior both men's entire world, before Michael grins and tears his gaze away far too bashfully for a man of his industry to be capable of. 

"Yeah, sure. Maybe we can hitch a ride on the train if it comes by, just hang," he responds, voice laced with a feigned sense of casualness and cheeks still dusted a light pink, as if they've ever been allowed to be such a flustered hue for any extended period of time. 

It's... better, though, Michael thinks. Nicer, at least, more *preferred*, to stay out with Ryan and pretend like the rest of the world isn't their priority, like nothing else is relevant. Just to be, and to be together.

"I'd be up for that. We'd be the most stylish trainhoppers anyone's ever seen. "Who're those well dressed, handsome gentleman hobos?" the people will say to themselves. All the ladies'll swoon as they see us pass by. More at you and your rock star look than me, but y'know." 

Ryan chuckled at his own joke. That was a good one, he thought to himself. Not that the last part about the ladies mattered to him. Nope, for right now he was set for the foreseeable future. He was just so at ease now. There was no awkwardness, or feeling like things had changed. It was just the two of them living life.  

The crew hopped onto the trains all the time, to varying levels of success. Well, Gavin had a varying level of success. But that was how Gavin lived pretty much his entire life.

"*Rock star look*??" Michael parrots back, his voice high with incredulity and barely repressed laughter. He looks caught between elated and disbelieving that Ryan made that comparison, and shakes his head as he finally whips the car around, glad for the seat belts as he does a smooth one-eighty and heads towards the direction the train should be coming in from. 

"How the hell is *jeans* and a *t-shirt* a "rock star" look??" He presses, amused and flummoxed and genuinely at ease all at once and in the best of ways because it's *Ryan* doing all this. It's *Ryan* making him feel at home in the middle of a deserted two-lane road between nowhere and the prized city of Los Santos, and it's Ryan keeping his mind off of everything that happened and could happen as they both focus on what's happening now, together. 

Once again the shift between the pair seems more present than ever, steadily strengthening with every stupid quip and retort and laugh and half-assed, venomless scowl.

"Okay listen, I don't know fashion! I like to blow things up with rockets, not look at the newest trends!" Ryan protested from the passenger seat. "You just got that whole attitude about you, man. It's like a "I'm cool, but also way better than you so step off, punk" sort of thing." 

Ryan gestured with his hands, trying to articulate what he was trying to say. There was really no good way to explain it, it was just a vague aura the lad gave off. Cool and collected, but also hot headed. It was a hard type to pull off, but Michael did it in the most masterful way.  

Halfway through his explanation, Ryan starts to laugh at his own disjointed words. Normally, the merc would be deadly serious, but with Michael he felt like he could let his hair down, so to speak. The lad made him feel almost giddy without even trying.

Michael laughs the whole way through the gent's clumsy reasoning, and feels his chest give a delighted leap at the sound of Ryan's deeper chuckles joining in. Poor Michael doesn't have the luxury of focusing on just the pair of them, forced to keep his crinkling eyes open as they threaten to close what for how much he's tittering. 

"Hey, don't imply that I don't *also* like to blow things up with rockets, Skeletor," Michael fires back once he's able to catch his breaths, to make the rise and fall of his chest steadier instead of stuttering with his obvious mirth. He looks nothing short of enraptured by the conversation, his driving shifting from the forefront of his attention to his subconscious mind as Ryan takes front and center (as he's wont to do these last couple days).

It's such a wonderful thing to see Ryan this way. To see him relaxed and smiling and practically bubbling with a laugh once rare and still prized. It's a warm, rumbling sound, sometimes more breath than noise, and it makes Michael's own higher snickers redouble every time, infectious to the end.

Ryan shrugged theatrically at the lad. "I'm not saying you can't blow things up as good as the next guy, maybe even better than the next guy, I'm just saying I don't know shit about clothes.' 

He vaguely feels his phone rumbling in his pocket, and pulls it out to look at it briefly. Oh good, a text from everyone's favorite mob boss. 

"Ryan I swear to god if you took Michael out on another joyride I'm gonna punch you right in the dick when you get back." 

Yep, good ol' Geoff. The Vagabond holds the phone up for a second before tossing it out the window of the Bifta. It shatters into a million tiny pieces behind them on the roadway, glass splinters covering the entire lane. Somebody was gonna have a really bad day if they hit that.

Michael seems at least slightly pacified by the indirect compliment, chin lifting the tiniest bit as he chuckles. He sees Ryan pull out his phone, hold it up briefly, and then suddenly sees the device fly right out of the Bifta to meet its no doubt brutal demise on the concrete behind them. 

"Geoff?" Is all Michael has to say, the lilt in his voice that signifies it's a question more than enough. 

He doesn't sound particularly worried, easing off of the gas as he sees a slow(-ish) moving train off on the horizon. He doesn't want to fly past it at 120 miles per hour (which, oops, haha, what's a speed limit?), figuring they may as well get stopped a little ways ahead of it to hop on when it rolls and rattles on by.

"Yeah, he's pissed. If I recall correctly, he said something about "punching me in the dick", so nothing important, as usual. You know Geoff, he's all bark and no bite, like a tiny, yappy Pomeranian. With a mustache."  

Ryan braced his foot against the car door as he felt the car slow, just slightly. He didn't want to ruin the mood by smashing face first into the dashboard. That probably wouldn't be the most impressive thing he'd ever done. Also probably not the least impressive thing, but that's beside the point.  

The train was rattling on, just in view from the horizon. There were a couple boxcars, prime jumping material. Then, Ryan had probably the best idea he'd had all day.  

"You think it might be fun to just hijack the whole train?"

Michael's snickering drops off and he looks like he could kiss Ryan, stopping the car the rest of the way and all but flying out of it in his excited flurry, "Yes, *fuck* yes, gimme a second..." 

The trunk pops open with a muffled clunk as Michael leans back into the driver's side and under the wheel for a fleeting second to pull back its trigger, practically skipping around the car afterwards to pull out the small selection of weapons he keeps in the tiny compartmental space. A few pistols, an unprimed charge or two, a shotgun, some spare ammo, and an empty space where Michael's mini gun is usually stored away during heist prep (he doesn't leave it in the vehicle all the time, too fond of the hulking weapon to separate from it for so long). 

He gives a sharp whistle and tosses two of three pistols to Ryan once the gent's gotten out as well, swinging the small bag holding the rest of the weapons over his shoulders and onto his back, and holding his own pistol loosely in his right hand at his hip. He's got a look of excited anticipation on his face, his expression curiously devoid of maliciousness or mischievousness. It's really just a genuine joy for him, all the destruction and mayhem his job brings his way.


	7. bribe the officials, kill all the judges

Ryan catches the pistols with ease, spinning them around his index finger once just as a little flourish. The train was just a short 50 yards away from the Bifta now, and ever advancing. 

"So we going straight for the engine? What's the gameplan?" Ryan glanced over at the lad, looking for guidance. Not only that, but Michael knew what he could and couldn't handle. He trusted him, in both decision making skills and to take care of himself. The second thing was more important than the first. Keeping the lad safe was Ryan's new self-appointed quest.  

Michael could be a little bit...well...quick to get himself in danger. Ryan would make sure that danger wouldn't be able to get anywhere near him.

Quick indeed. Michael all but begged for danger, and ran headlong into it at every available opportunity. 

"Nah, I have an idea. Go for the second or third car from the back and clear it out," he replies vaguely, bouncing on the balls of his feet as the train chugs ever closer, a small gust of wind hitting the gangsters as the engine rolls past. He waits for the first several cars to follow suit before throwing Ryan a grin and starting to run up to the train and alongside it. Tugging the door open to the third-from-last car is easy, and with a hearty tug, Michael is lifting himself up to and vanishing inside it. 

Not quietly, though. Three or four irregularly timed but rapid-fire gunshots can be heard, along with a cracked scream which is cut off by a final shot. Michael's head pokes back out once he's done and he sticks an arm out for the gent to grab onto, looking plenty proud of himself.

Ryan takes off running the moment after Michael does, sticking one pistol into his pants pocket. One of the perks of wearing men's jeans. He grabs the lad's hand, using his momentum to hop into the car, landing evenly on the wooden slated floor.  

Ryan doesn't see what caused the scream, he's already heading for the connector door. He glances back to make sure his companion is keeping pace, then slides the door open. He takes a tentative step onto the car joint, holding onto the handle as he slides the door of the next car open.  

Taking a shaky step across, Ryan sees a homeless man holding his hands above his head in surrender. He fires a shot at him, almost effortlessly taking the man down. He looks back, and holds out his free hand to help Michael cross the gap.

Michael is pulling one of the charges and a remote out of his bag, though, sticking it firmly to the floor of the train car before hurrying after Ryan, his own gun tucked into the back of his jeans now as his firing hand curls instead around the explosive's trigger. He half-kneels to tug suddenly at the latching mechanism holding the two train cars together, the clasp rusted and half-eroded and easy to split apart.  

The moment the last three train cars disconnect and the distance between himself and Ryan begins to grow, Michael reaches out for the gent, his empty hand clasping easily in the other man's, and he uses Ryan's steadier balance to hop across the rapidly growing gap between cars.  

A slight stumble and breathy little laugh later and Michael's standing by Ryan, hands still pressed together by the palms and the grin on Michael's face positively gleeful. 

He presses down on the remote trigger, the click an audible one. A second or two later, the train car explodes in a massive fireball, the two still connected caught in the blast and all three being blasted right off the tracks.

Ryan holds his hand up to shield his eyes from the blast, before realizing its still clasping a gun and is therefore useless as cover. He gives Michael's hand a tight squeeze before letting go. 

"That was one hell of an explosion. I'll bet ya five bucks on it being first page news." Ryan smiled, the thought of one of his and the lad's adventures garnering the interest of the entire city. "Let's get going, there's still a long way to the front." 

With that, he turns to the front again, and hurrying to the next junction. The door between this car and the next is missing, so he easily pulls himself into it. The car is empty, only a few broken crates littering the floor.  

He turns back, looking to make sure Michael clears the gap. He's ready to catch him if he falls, or slips off the weather beaten metal clasp.

Michael looks thrilled, nodding to Ryan and following him along to the next car over. He's still got one more charge, but he figures he's sated enough by the one he just set off to save that one for a grand finale of some sort. Maybe blowing up the engine once he and Ryan are done with it? 

Oh. Oh *definitely* doing that.  For now though. Michael just lets Ryan help him cross into the next train car and they keep on their way, the energetic lad getting ahead this time around and being immediately greeted by several idling workers as he swings open the door of the next train car. 

He's smiling like a maniac as he braces himself on the open door and holds up his pistol, firing three well-aimed shots and hopping over entirely. Again, he offers a supportive hand to Ryan, both determinedly looking out for the other.

Ryan grabs the lad's outstretched hand, and nearly launches himself into the car. He smashes into Michael with a soft thud, putting his other hand out behind the lad to stop him from falling. The end result is that he almost foxtrot dips him, pulling him back to his feet at the last second.  

That was...an experience. If there were any more light in the car, Michael could have seen a lightish red blush fill Ryan's face.  

"My bad, sorry," is all the flustered gent can manage to say before letting go and slipping past the lad. He kicks a stray limb away from the door, and slides it open, jumping and landing safely on the other side before leaning back across the gap and offering his hand.

Michael ends up having to fling the his pistol-bearing arm blindly half-around Ryan's shoulders as he feels the floor of the train car suddenly swoop up to meet him, their hands still grasped and Michael's tightening its grip. Then, from one second to the next and in the blink of an eye, Ryan's hand is pressed flat against the small of Michael's back, supporting him up and back onto his feet before retreating in a flustered flurry of apologies and niceties most unlike the Vagabond. 

Michael turns a much less pale shade of crimson, adjusting his shirt idly and struggling to connect the explosion he just set off not a minute ago with Ryan's arm looping around him to pull him up, closer than ever. Honestly, how the *hell*? 

He only has a second or two before he has to follow the fleeing gent, his reddened face visible in the brief moments that he spends suspended between train cars. Then he's rejoining Ryan and they're heading onwards yet again.

Ryan raises the pistol once more, aiming a shot through the glassless window between cars to take out a maintenance worker that hasn't heard the commotion yet. The man goes down like a sack of bricks, crumpling out of sight in an instant.  

Leaning to the side of the door, Ryan peers through the hole between the cabins. He can just see the engine steps on the other side. It's a farther jump this time, and no guarantee the door at the end of the path will even be unlocked if they made it.  

The Vagabond slides the door open as far as it'll go and, with a brief glance back at Michael, takes a running leap across, catching the railing and hauling himself onto the shaking engine.  

He looks back, braces his legs against the steel stairs, and with one hand holding the railing tight leans backward across the gap. He stretches his hand out for the lad to grab.

Michael lets Ryan take the lead, content enough to follow behind him and keep an eye out for any lingering trainmen. 

Except for the one that lunges out for Michael from behind a stack of crates, tripping the merc up and tackling him to the floor by flinging his arms about the Jersey lad's thighs. His gun flies stupidly from his hands, and he hits about twelve bruises on the way down to the rattling, rocking floor, but all of this only really serves to mount his already permanent irritation. 

Michael's knuckles meet the face of the clumsy, shaking, inadept worker, and he eventually kicks his way out from under the admittedly bulkier man and manages to lunge for his pistol, which rattles softly on the never-quite-still floor of the train car. 

A single shot later and Michael gets back to his feet, brushing himself off like he's just been bumped into on the way to work instead of attacked in a train-jacking (that *he's* guilty of) and finally hopping over to Ryan's side on the engine. 

His foot nearly slips off the edge, his front bumping into Ryan's a bit as he overcompensates for the lack in balance. It's his turn to hope away this time around, his flush hopefully easy to blame on the little fist fight he just had. There's already a small bruise rising along his cheekbone where the now dead worker managed to land a blow, a tiny cut bright red over the angry purpling skin (likely caused by a ring or just the brute force of the blow). Michael doesn't seem to notice it.

Ryan's heart jumps as he sees the tiny cut on Michael's face. It was just a minor scrape, but it meant something more to him. It meant that, even just slightly, he had failed to protect Michael from danger yet again.  

Ryan takes a moment to dab at the cut as gently as he was capable of with his thumb. The single drop of blood oozing out of it gets whisked away, leaving the open wound in its place. With a satisfied head tilt, the Vagabond turned and strode down the shaking walkway to the conductor's cabin. 

Failure. You failed, yet again, to keep the lad safe. Ryan's subconscious berated him, filling him with the rage one would expect from Los Santos's most wanted criminal.  

He didn't pause at the door, sending two quick shots through the window and into the back of the driver's head. The man slumped onto the console before he could utter a single last word. Ryan tried the door handle, and it swung open, unlocked.  

He swept the rest of the cabin, clearing it with expert precision before turning back to the controls and heaving the dead driver out of his seat by the collar. The train continued on at a steady pace, seemingly set on its course.

Michael, while surprised by the gentle swipe of blood ("It's just a little scrape, Skeletor, it's..." and then slightly softer and entirely unheard, "Are you okay?") and then the way Ryan just sort of swept off, he supposes he's not really complaining. The gent's been weirdly determined to lead the way the whole trek up the train, but Michael got to blow up the back and he's gonna do the same with the engine which he is *so* excited for so he figures it's even and that maybe Ryan's just eager too? 

He doesn't make the connection. Doesn't recognize Ryan's protectiveness and internalized frustration for what it is. He just claps him twice on the back and shoots him a victorious grin as they pile into the small cabin space. The controls are vast in number and completely meaningless to Michael, who drops down in front of them anyways, horribly tempted to start flicking every bright red switch in sight. 

He does manage to resist, though, settling instead for leaning back in the semi-reclinable seat that the original driver breathed his last in and giving an idle, tuneless whistle while Ryan disposes of the fresh corpse in question. He looks back and upside-down at the Vagabond when he returns, entirely unaware of the poor gent's inner struggle and altogether thrilled with what they've managed to pull off. 

"Dude," he says, voice caught in a curious limbo between seriousness and elation, "We just stole a *train*."

Ryan can't help but smile at the ridiculous sight of Michael looking at him with all the anticipation of a two year old with a new box of crayons. A new box of crayons that he plans on blowing up with highly flammable explosive charges.  

"*Fuck yeah* we just stole a train. Stole that shit right out from under their noses. I think we may have just pulled off one of the greatest heists in crew by ourselves. One problem: how the fuck are we gonna get off of this thing before it blows sky high?" 

They were past the point of no return now. Michael's prized Bifta was nowhere in sight, being left behind when they hopped aboard. Their only options for escape now were either to jump and hope that the ground would be forgiving, or rush to the last car and decouple it before the blast went off. Neither option sounded particularly safe, but since when did the Fake AH crew care about safety?

Michael purses his lips at the query and sits up a bit, eyes pulling away from Ryan to dart back over the control panel. It doesn't make any more sense the second time he looks at it, and he suggests a bit less than certainly, "We... jump? Or try to bolt to the end of the train? The charge is remotely triggered, so that's possible..." 

Great (read: violent) minds think alike, apparently, as Michael reaches the same two safest (relatively speaking) escape plans available that Ryan did just a few moments earlier. He seems fonder of the second, not too thrilled to launch his already bruised and beaten and, now, slightly sore body off an unstoppable train any time soon. 

He does look to Ryan first, though, as though to get the older man's approval of his half-formed plans before proceeding. It's curious, the system they've adopted - Ryan charging ahead to protect a usually more brash Michael, while the Wild Child lags behind and plays defensive under the watchful eye of the Vagabond.

It won't last. Michael can't be restrained this way for long, and never has been before.

Ryan nodded, confirming the Wild Child's plan, but was having second thoughts. If they could just somehow slow down the train... 

And suddenly, one singular part of the console makes sense, a large red lever. That must be the brake. Or the emergency brake, either one. Pull that, slow the train, plant the charge, jump, and bam. Plan done.  

"Actually, slightly better plan, possibly. Maybe one that won't get us killed and make Geoff yell at me even in the afterlife. So this thing," he said, gesturing to the brake, "is *most likely* a brake. Maybe. I'm a mercenary, not a train scientist, so I'm not 100% sure. But, if we pull it, plant the charge and jump, we may just avoid being caught in the explosion. So it's up to you at this point."

Michael is briefly distracted by the words "train scientist", the mere phrase making him snort and sending him into an ill-timed bout of giggles and snickers. 

He does regain his composure soon enough and nod, though, sitting up proper and tucking his pistol back into the bag that, mere moments later, he draws a second unprimed charge and remote trigger from. He sets the explosive itself right in the middle of the chair he'd been sat in once he's stood up, and nods to Ryan with an uneven, mischievous little grin and a quip of, "You'd better break my fall when we jump since this is your bright idea," before wrapping one hand around the lever and pulling hard. 

The brakes can be heard squealing and screeching against the tracks, and the surrounding scenery begins to fly by the train at a gradually slower speed, and that's cue enough for Michael to hurry after Ryan back down the stairs to the open link between the engine and first train car.  

All that's left is to leap and activate the bomb, the remote held ready in Michael's trigger-happy fingers.

Ryan scans the upcoming horizon quickly, seeing an especially grassy path that might be not bone crunching to land on and slid down nicely into a deep ditch. Plenty of protection from, oh, let's say, an exploding train engine.   He reaches beside him, and without even giving a second thought, grabs Michael's hand tightly. 

"You're gonna have to trust me on this one," he said, voice wobbling slightly with the vibration of the train. "We gotta jump straight out to the side in 3, 2, 1, now!" Both the lad and gent leaped from the still trundling train toward the grassy embankment. Ryan somehow, seemingly through pure force of will, made a tiny course correction midair that changed his trajectory from directly beside Michael to just in front of him. 

His shoulders hit the ground first, absorbing most of the impact force from the fall. Still, it hurt like a bitch. Moments later, Michael, as promised, landed not on the hard ground, but directly onto Ryan, breaking his fall, and accidentally jabbing an elbow into the gent's ribs at the same time.  

In the moments after the two finally skidded to a stop at the bottom of the ditch, Ryan wrapped one arm around Michael' s back, and the other held the lad's head close to his chest in an attempt to shield him from the inevitable shrapnel a two hundred ton hunk of exploding metal was sure to cause.

Michael doesn't manage to get out something more than a mildly defensive, "Well no *shit* I trust you," before he's suddenly half-jumping, half-pulled off the train entirely, his hand gripping onto Ryan's in the air and his other arm tucking itself reflexively against his chest. 

Michael doesn't *actually* expect Ryan to take most of the fall for him, confused alarms ringing off in his head as the Vagabond's strong arms are suddenly around him and he feels his landing softened by the poor gent's upper body. He shifts as though to get off of Ryan when he's being rolled over and pressed lightly into the grass, a hand cupping lightly around the nape of his neck and his own now-empty hand curling tightly into the fabric of Ryan's shirt. 

He hears the boom, cranes his head up to peer around Ryan's neck at the fireball, pretends it's his focus whenever he can feel the gent's heartbeat rapid-fire against his own and pretends to be enthralled by the shrapnel that flies overhead (thankfully they're a bit too far into the ditch to get hit by any) instead of the arms wrapped around him and the way he can rest his cheek against Ryan's shoulders and still enjoy the burning view.

Ryan hears the blast go off in front of them, and loosens his grip on the lad just slightly. He can't see the train, but if they were going to be hit with anything, it already would have happened.  

He uncurls his arms from around Michael, the imminent danger of being sliced by train shrapnel being temporarily over with, and sits down on the ground next to the lad. He looks over at the train for the first time to see it a smoldering mess. Derailed and half vaporized by the blast, it looked almost like a wounded animal left by a hunter. 

The gravitas of what was happening finally hit him. They had stolen an entire train. And then blew it the fuck up. Well, Michael had really done all the blowing up, to be fair. But still, that was really fucking cool. He could feel the adrenaline running through his veins, even now.  

"I think we might've messed up their rail schedule a little," he deadpanned, smiling at the burning, chaotic mess they'd created.

Most people might be screaming, even crying, at the sight of an exploding train on the edge of town. Not Mogar and the Vagabond, though, who sit back side-by-side and grin at the wreckage with all of the pride of a small child displaying their latest work of art to a parent or teacher. 

"Oh, y'think?" Michael replies sarcastically, snickering as the heat from the derailed and half-decoupled mess of flames and chaos and burning metal in front of them washes itself over the pair.  

"Geoff might kill us," he muses wryly, still grinning and clearly none too worried about the aneurysm they may or may not have just given their boss. He knows this would be considered... borderline excessive, but still *pretty* normal Crew activity if Michael weren't, well.  Just back from a brutal, violent kidnapping. 

But he's having fun and living again and maybe doesn't notice the fact that the chopper passing by overhead does not, in fact, belong to the news or the police, as he might idly think. Maybe he doesn't see it go right past the *burning train* like it's a bed of fucking flowers, the sound of it landing nearby almost unrecognized by Michael beyond a fleeting, unspoken thought of, "Hey, maybe we can steal that, too." 


	8. every angle of unfair advantage

So maybe he's caught by surprise by the hand that grabs him by the scruff of his neck and yanks him up from the ground (actually tugging a stifled sound of pain from the lad because he's *bruised* there and ow, that *hurts*), and by the bristling mustache of one particularly furious Geoff Ramsey.

Ryan doesn't notice the helicopter either, until he hears Michael yelp beside him. For second he thinks it's a bit of delayed shrapnel hitting him, before accidentally looking up into the eyes of a very angry Ramsey.  

Geoff looks about 3 shades lighter than a firetruck at the moment, which is never a good sign. Ryan stands up, using his height to his advantage in the situation. Even to his friends, he was a scary motherfucker sometimes.  

"So what's the occasion that graces us with the presence of the great mastermind?" Ryan says, the train still burning behind him as if to answer his question.  

"You stole a fucking train, you idiots! Michael hasn't even been back a full week yet and you're already stealing trains!" shouted the irate boss, gesturing to the wreckage with the hand that wasn't still clasped around Michael's neck.

Michael winces at the pressure on his neck, still peppered with purple marks that fade into a yellowish green at the edges - and then to nothing, to clear unmarred skin - but doesn't complain, looking entirely put-out by the recent development and appearance of the party-pooper himself and piping up morosely, "S'better than sitting around doing jack shit all fucking day." 

"That's what you're supposed to do when you're hurt, jackass!" Geoff yells back, voice cracking what for its increased volume, "You're supposed to be at home getting *rid* of those fucking bruises, not out here getting more of them!" 

Michael looks effectively chastised, head lowering slightly and lips pressed downwards into a small, frustrated little frown. Things had been going so *well*. His hands stuff themselves into the pockets of his jeans and he finally shrugs Geoff's hand sharply off of the back of his neck, snapping irritably in reply, "Fine, I'll go home. Fine."

The obvious disappointment on the lad's face is enough to make Ryan do something he would never do normally: go against Geoff.  

"Hey, don't treat him like a fucking child," he says, scowling at Geoff with the angriest face he can muster. "That's what you've been doing the whole time since he got back! You've been treating him like a teenager with a goddamn curfew."  

Geoff looks slightly taken aback before replying, "That's what's best for him! You have no clue what's best! You think you can just run around like nothing ever happened, but you can't!"  

"You know what? You're right! I have no fucking clue what's best for Michael! But you know who does? The kid you've been trying to lock up!"

Michael looks more than mildly alarmed as Ryan, after a moment or two's delay, *argues* with Geoff. No one without a death wish does that, what the hell is he thinking? 

And with Geoff's reply, Michael's been effectively shoved out of the conversation entirely, discussed in the third person like a child being argued about by angry parents. He feels a twinge of annoyance in his gut and clears his throat, replying coolly, "Yeah, hello, the "kid" is still right here." 

Geoff's eyes land on him with mild surprise, as though he'd forgotten Michael's actual presence, and that makes Michael's minimal annoyance flare into real frustration, "Jesus Geoff, I'm not five fucking years old, I'm a grown man trying to feel like I'm *not* still stuck in some dingy ass cell! I get you're all scared - I know what happened, wise ass, you know I know - but this is *fucking. Stupid.*"

His voice actually gets slightly less angry towards the end, the final words said more for emphasis than out of anger. Bitching Geoff out won't get him on his side, the gent needs to actually *understand*.

Ryan just crosses his arms, and looks to see how Geoff reacts to the truth. He's actually surprised to see the boss's gaze soften, just a little. 

"Shit, I never thought about it like that. I mean, we're just trying to make sure you're okay, and you don't hurt yourself even more. We care about you, dude, that's all," he explains.  

Ryan says nothing, it's not his conversation anymore. This is something Michael has to work out with Geoff. He does, however, move ever so slightly closer to the lad to show which side of the argument he was on.  

In the distance, but still quite far away, he could hear police sirens.

Michael looks... mostly relieved by Geoff's eventual agreement. Sheepish, even, for exploding the way he did, but it needed to be said. Michael's always been an energetic and violent lad, difficult to contain from a young age and always getting himself into trouble. It's just what he does, how he functions, and he *likes* it that way. 

"Yeah well... I get that, but y'know. Since when's Mogar ever gone more than a week without blowing something up?" He replies, scratching idly at the back of his neck and and cracking a crooked smile.

Geoff barks a laugh and nods, responding wryly, "True, that. I do need to get you idiots out of here though - you obviously didn't plan ahead for this if your brilliant escape involved jumping off of a speeding train engine. C'mon." 

Michael concedes there, making enough progress with Geoff to be content (and not wanting to press his luck with the bossy gent either, really), and follows after him, Ryan at his side and the adrenaline high from their escapades finally starting to wear off. It leaves him looking vaguely drowsy but supremely pleased with himself.

Ryan follow the two back to the helicopter, trailing just a bit behind. He waits until Michael's already climbed into the back before hauling himself up into the free seat next to him. He gives a quick nod of recognition to Jack, who had apparently been waiting patiently during their little spat. It made sense that Geoff would bring someone to fly the damn thing, seeing as how he was absolutely garbage at it. 

"Did you guys get someone to pick up the Bifta?" Ryan asked as they lifted off. Until now, he hadn't even considered how they were going to retrieve it before it was picked up by police for their earlier stunt which Geoff hadn't even mentioned. He probably *wouldn't* know unless the news ran the story. It might actually be better to have Geoff blow his top about that now rather than later.  

"Oh, and uh, we kinda blew up a bunch of cars on the highway earlier. No big deal, just letting you know."  Ryan could hear him sigh from the front seat, loud enough to hear even over the engine of the copter.

Michael sniggers at the Ramsey's irritated sigh and gives Ryan a light nudge in the ribs with his elbow, mostly unconcerned about the Bifta. He'll call his mechanic when they get back to the penthouse and get him to track down and pick it up. It'll be some cash out of his pocket, but money's not had much real value to the Crew for a while, ever since their first successful heist of many. At this point the mayhem they cause is mostly just for fun. 

The flight is a short one, the helicopter lowering onto the roof of their building and landing with a gentle bump. Jack is by far the best flier the Crew has, with little to no screaming involved during his stints of time up in the air. 

Gavin is a whole n'other story. 

Michael hops out of the chopper after Ryan, Geoff still hovering over him like a concerned mother during the entirety of the short trek down to their shared flat. He's not sent to his room (which is a nice change and makes him feel like he isn't still in fucking elementary school), instead slipping off to the kitchen to rattle around in the fridge and pull out one of the many cheap beers they store there. It's never too early.

Ryan follows Michael to the kitchen, and grabbing a diet soda from the door. He didn't really drink beer, it just didn't taste good to him. To each his own though, he supposed.  

He suddenly heard a noise that sounded like a cross between a dying bird and a small child, and barely had enough time to move out of the way as Gavin barreled into the room and almost tackled Michael. The curly-haired lad was so taken aback that he dropped his beer on the ground, and the can rolled off under the counter. 

"My boi!" squawked the tall British lad, "Geoff says you blew up a train! Are you mental? You could have died!" 

Ryan rolled his eyes at that comment. It's not like they blew up a skyscraper or anything crazy like that. Hm... 

He might store that particular idea away for later.

Michael feels the breath knocked out of him as Gavin practically runs him into a counter, wheezing and patting the Brit's back once or twice before trying fruitlessly to pry him off of his front, "We could die doing anything we do *every day*, Gav, *Jesus fucking Christ*." 

He doesn't sound genuinely angry though, an arm resting around the Brit's shoulders and patting him on the head as he squeaks out another high pitched whine from his throat - because such a sound has no sense resonating in his chest. Michael manages to peel the fretful, spidery lad off of himself long enough to scoop his beer up out of the floor before he's being quite literally picked up around his middle from behind and toted out by the insistent Brit, "Quit being cheeky you risky little scab, you're getting rest right absolutely now!" 

Michael's groans and snaps of halfhearted protest can be heard going into the living room, where he's deposited onto the sofa like a petulant child.

The sight of Michael being lifted up and carried like a five year old sent Ryan into a laughing fit. He tried to stay quiet, not wanting the lad to hear him almost dying from laughing so hard. The lads sure were something else. They still had a bit of that carefreeness that the gents often forgot even existed.  

When he was done giggling, he followed them into the living room. He took the seat right next to Michael, resting an arm on the back of the couch behind his shoulders. Michael was now buffeted on either side by his crew, one talking his ear off about being safe and careful and "if you get minced I would *actually* cry" s." 

Ryan just sits idly by, sipping his soda. Michael hadn't opened his beer yet, probably waiting for it to be safe to open after being shaken up. Ryan put his drink on the floor, before taking the can from Michael and shaking it once more. He muttered a quick, "might want to watch out" before popping the top and spraying Gavin with the cold spray.  

It wasn't a real Fake AH conversation until somebody was an asshole to somebody else.

Michael was fleetingly glad for the already-existing closeness of the Crew as Ryan's arm resting behind him didn't raise a single question. It's a comfort too, the gent's warmth being so close, and soothes some of the already irate lad's mounting frustration with Gavin's whiny hollering.

He's considering shooting Ryan the briefest of glares for laughing, though, whenever his slightly dented can of beer is pulled from his hands and given another sharp shake. He presses himself against the back of the sofa and turns into Ryan fractionally as the can cracks open and sprays Gavin. The Brit squawks loudly at the cold splatter of liquid and actually vaults over the arm of the couch, landing on his back in the floor with a dramatic groan and his rangy legs still hooked over the sofa where he fell.

Michael bursts into laughter, almost falling off the couch himself as he doubles over laughing. Some of his front got sprayed as well, but when Gavin pops up with his face and hair soaking wet, the Jones clearly couldn't care less about the drink sopped over his own clothes.

Ryan tosses the can at Gavin, just lightly enough to hit him in the shoulder and splash him with the remaining beer. He hears Michael start giggling and can't help but laugh too. Gavin's face was just too betrayed looking, it was really hilarious. 

"Ryan! My clothes are covered in gross wet now!" the lad yelled from the end of the couch. From where the gent was sitting, it almost looked like he was part of a puppet show, which just made him laugh louder.  

"Retribution, Gav, retribution," was all Ryan could offer, shrugging his shoulders slightly and grinning. "If you keep complaining I'll go get the bread and throw it on you." 

He could see the lad's face crinkle up at the thought, and he scampered away to change, throwing back a quick middle finger to the still amused pair.

Michael's laughter redoubles at the vague mention of Gavin's stupid phobia - wet bread. Incredible. He leans back again and pushes his glasses up the slightest bit to wipe mirthful tears from his eyes. 

"Dude, *that* was the most brutal thing I've seen all day," he titters, too amused by Gavin's tantrum to mourn the loss of his perfectly good beer. He pinches a bit of his shirt that's darkened and weighted by the beer that hit him, prying it off of his chest only to have it flap wetly right back into place. It was worth a shot, and if Michael really cared then he'd go change or something, but whoops he doesn't. 

Besides, he isn't very wont to move anymore, the sound of his and Ryan's chuckles slipping into a slow fade and the rest of the living room empty and peaceful. For once, it's what Michael needs - a bit of quiet, a bit of a break.

"More brutal than that sick throw you did earlier? I thought that was pretty good, to be honest." 

The gent sinks down into the soft couch, retrieving his soda from the ground. This seemed almost normal, like they were a bunch of investment bankers on holiday instead of the greatest and most ruthless crew in town. Ryan wouldn't give up this life for anything, but the moments of calm between the never ending storms was nice.  

He leaned slightly into Michael, as close as he thought he could get away with without raising questions should Gavin come back into the room.

Michael does the same, shifting his weight slightly into Ryan and lifting one of his legs to rest his ankle over the knee of his other leg. He snorts at the flattery and waves a hand dismissively, replying with an amused smile, "Nah, anything that makes Gavin scream *and* fuck off at the same time is both brutal and my new favorite thing." 

He's happy to be home. To put it very simply, Michael is just really, extremely happy to be on this sofa, right now, after a morning of demolition, and especially with Ryan. The gent's warmth feels like home and safety and security, and Michael can't help but shift the tiniest bit closer to it, settling against the Vagabond's side and just... being.

Ryan, feeling the lad shift against him, can't help but smile. After so long of things being disrupted, everything finally felt back to normal. Better than normal, even. Honestly, he never even dreamed that things would end up like this. The best he allowed himself to hope for was just getting the lad back alive, but this? This tiny moment of them just being near each other was enough to warm the Vagabond's heart down to the core.  

Everything was back in it's proper place. To enunciate that point further, Ray walked through the room to the kitchen, not even looking up from his 3ds, and just giving the pair an offhand wave of acknowledgement. Yep, business as usual.  

Though, Ryan did hear something clattering around in the other room. In the general direction of where Gavin scampered off to. Hm, that couldn't be good.

Michael doesn't look too bothered. Since when has Gavin ever not been stumbling and knocking himself into things like a dumbass? If the merc went running after his boi every time he heard Gav break something, he'd never sleep. 

Which, coincidentally, he looks awfully close to doing now. The events of the day combined with his early morning, still-healing wounds, and lack of proper sleep has left the poor lad weary and tuckered out. He doesn't seem upset by any means, sinking back into the couch and trying to fight the way his head threatens to tip over and drop against Ryan's shoulder or the back of the sofa. 

So no, Michael isn't concerned by the clattering noise. What he is concerned about is the following quiet - too silent for Gavin, especially if he's broken something. Michael turns his head around, brows furrowing, and calls out shortly, "Gav?"  Something's gotta be wrong.

Gav pokes his head around the corner, smiling deviously before swinging what looks to be Ryan's flamethrower into view. Why does Ryan have a flamethrower? A better question would be why didn't everyone have a fucking radical flamethrower.  

The Vagabond feels a sudden pang of something like fear, before Gavin pulls the trigger, dousing Ryan, Michael, and the entire couch with warm, sticky beer. He cackles madly to himself, watching as the gent stands up to try to avoid the blast.  

"Gavin! You put beer in my fucking flamethrower? That's an antique, goddammit!" Ryan exclaims, pulling his now soaked shirt away from his body and glaring at Gav with all the anger of, well, of a man who had just been doused with his own flamethrower. The other lad's eyes widen in fear as he squawks and runs the other way, presumably toward the penthouse's fire escape.

Michael is spluttering, completely soaked to the skin through his clothes, and only vaguely catches Ryan's shouting before he sees Gavin bolt. In a surprisingly deft maneuver, Michael twists himself around and jumps over the back of the sofa, yelling over Gavin's own terrified squawking as his arms catch the Brit round his middle and tackle his rangy, thin frame to the floor.  

The ensuing wrestling match is a hilarious disaster for Gav and an easy victory for Michael, who finally pins the struggling idiot down onto his stomach with his arm twisted around behind his back. 

Michael doesn't look angry, giving his head a hard shake and sprinkling droplets of cheap booze all over a still-screeching Gavin Free. He's laughing now, holding the British lad down and looking up at Ryan with a haughty little grin, "Dude. Douse him."

Ryan picks up the handle from where the brit dropped it in his panic to escape, and aims it right in Gavin's face. He pulls the trigger, and absolutely fucking *drenches* him. The lad sputters, trying to keep the warm, gross beer out of his mouth.  

After about 10 seconds of good drenching, the last of the beer dribbles out onto the floor. Ryan laughs as Gavin just looks up at him from the puddle of beer, looking like a kicked puppy.  

"Why Michael? I thought we were a team!" the soaked lad yells, trying to wriggle out of Mogar's strong grip. "Team Nice Dynamite, Micoo! Why have you betrayed me?"  

"Don't be so dramatic, Gav, you mess with the bull, you get the horns. Or in this case, a face full of shitty beer," said Ryan, leaning the empty thrower on his shoulder.

"Yeah, plus, you soaked me too!!" Michael scoffs, releasing Gavin once he's as drenched as the other two only to freeze at the sound of a familiar, crack-filled shout,  "What the FUCK is this?!" 

Gavin jumps out of his skin at the sound of Geoff's shout, the gent looking ready to snap with his mustache slightly frayed and his usually half-lidded eyes wide and furious. Michael's quick to shirk the blame, pointing to Gavin and replying hurriedly, "He filled up Ryan's flamethrower with beer and sprayed us." 

Gavin looks betrayed, but hey, it's every man for himself when the wrath of Geoff Ramsey becomes a factor. 

"Shut up," Geoff snaps viciously, pointing angrily at Michael, "You, shower, then your room. DON'T!" He adds, tone warbly and uneven, as Michael opens his mouth to protest, "Just GO!" 

And go Michael does, stalking off to the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him, still dripping with and reeking of beer.

"I guess I'm not entitled to a shower, then?" Ryan asked, not all that scared by the, admittedly very angry, man.  

"Haha, very funny," Geoff replied, keeping his eyes on Gavin. The lad had a tendency to run off when faced with danger. The lad made a dash for it, only to be caught by the collar before he could even leave the floor fully. He slipped and fell on the puddle of beer on the floor, pulling Geoff down into the mess on accident.  

Ryan couldn't help but laugh as the other gent's face all but burst into flames as he grabbed Gavin by the shoulder in a deathgrip. His mustache was dripping just slightly with spilled beer.  

"You are gonna fucking clean this up. *Now*, Gavin!" The gent yelled, his voice cracking in rage. "And, you," he said, turning his attention to Ryan and hauling himself up from the floor, "I just want you to stop destroying my stuff. Can you do that? For me, Ryan, please, just stop destroying my fucking stuff."  

"You got it boss," Ryan replied, absconding from the situation before Geoff could get even angrier at him. He almost sprinted down the hall to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Michael doesn't linger in the bathroom once he's finished in the shower, leaving his sopping mess of beer-stinking clothes in the floor and hurrying down the hall to his room with one towel about his hips and the other hanging loosely over his curly-haired head. He smells considerably better and is also notably less sticky, and only catches a glimpse of one morose Gavin Free mopping up his own mess before he ducks into his room. 

Dressing is fast and simple, a pair of boxers and sweatpants being tugged on and little else. Michael flops back onto his bed with a tired, ragged sigh, eyes closing and that nagging drowsiness ebbing up against the edges of his mind again.  He shifts and squirms and wriggles around until he's sprawled comfortably out on his stomach, glasses off and face half-buried into his pillow and breaths becoming steadier and steadier until they peter out into shallow, slow little puffs of air.  

Michael sleeps soundly, content and calm and, for the first time in weeks, without a single dream, good or bad. It's a relief.

Ryan, once Michael is done showering, takes a shower himself. He doesn't spend long, just long enough to get the smell of beer off of him. Though, when he goes to go back to his room, he finds that somebody took both towels from the towel bar, leaving him with only a hand towel to dry off with.

Goddammit.

He yells for Gavin to bring him a towel, and the lad does, tossing it in Ryan's face the second he cracks the door. He wraps the towel around his waist and hurries back to his room before more retribution could be enacted.

He changes into a pair of boxers and climbs under the heavy flannel comforter of his bed. The drowsyness that the day caused puts him to sleep almost immediately. And, for the first time in weeks, he doesn't have a horrible nightmare. No guilt, no visions, nothing. It was almost perfect.

Michael figures it's time to properly mourn the loss of his semi-sound sleep schedule when he wakes up, well-rested and without chance of getting back to sleep any time soon, at five in the morning. He muffles his angry, groggy groan into his pillow before getting up and, still bare-chested because who the fuck else is going to be up at five in the fucking A.M.??  

The coffee machine in the kitchen splutters and gurgles as it makes Michael's coffee, the lad himself leaning groggily over the counter and resting his elbows on it. He looks tired, sure, but his bruises are fading and his curls are back to their natural fluffiness and he seems comfortable and relaxed and at home again. 

Also really fucking tired. Mostly that. 

He pours about half of the coffee pot into the biggest mug he could find and dumps some sugar into it, mixing it all up nicely and taking it out with him onto the balcony. He stretches out over the couch there this time, curls visible poking over the top and feet hanging off the end.

Ryan wakes up at about the same time. The Vagabond was never much one for sleeping in. The faster you face the day, the faster you can get to the fun part. That's not to say he's a morning person, though. He practically has to drag himself out of bed, almost tripping over the discarded flamethrower on his way to the closet.  

Oh yeah, he'd forgotten to clean the damn thing after the mess that was yesterday. He groans inwardly to himself, trudging out the door and into the kitchen to get a roll of paper towels and a glass of water.  

Supplies in hand, he goes back to his room, clicking the door shut quietly behind him. He spends about 15 minutes taking the metal bits apart and wiping the dried grime off of them with the paper towels. When it was all finished, the huge contraption looked almost like new, its only flaw was a stubborn valve that just wouldn't stay closed. It must have broken when it hit the floor.  

Ryan sighs, but remembers that Geoff kept an emergency tool kit in the closet at the end of the hall. He leaves his room again, completely forgetting that he was still decked out in nothing but his plaid boxers, and walks down the hall until he gets to the utility closet. He turns the handle, but the door doesn't open. Is it locked? He pulls and pushes the door again, harder this time, just to make sure that he isn’t just being dense.  

Nope, the door is actually locked, and not only that, but he's probably woken someone up with the loud noise he just made. Oops.

Michael doesn't hear Ryan rustling around in the kitchen, contentedly relaxing on the balcony's couch and letting his better coffee warm him from the inside out. It's something he thinks he could actually get used to - as much as he adores chaos and fire and high counts of collateral damage, the energetic lad does get tired out, and he needs his time to be alone, too. 

His time is cut short by the faint rattling of a door inside the flat, Michael perking up as he hears the sound briefly. He thinks he's imagining it by the time the second, slightly longer clattering noise reaches his ears, and can't help but find himself awash with curiosity - who's trying so hard to get into a locked door and why's the door locked in the first place?  

Michael, surprisingly quiet on his bare feet, carries his coffee carefully between chilly palms and curled fingers as he slides the rickety glass door inside open just enough to slip through it. It closes behind him as quietly as he can make it, and he pads over to the hallway to peer down it nosily. 

And, of fucking course it's Ryan. Why did he think he'd see anyone else, with the last few days' track record? He can't help but snicker at the way Ryan stares baffled at the door handle like it's personally offended him, and gives an ever so soft whistle to get his attention before lifting his brow and whispering, "What the hell're you doing?"

Ryan looks up in surprise to see the lad holding a cup of coffee and staring at him like he's some sort of sideshow attraction. Why is the lad always awake when he is? Awfully convenient, though, since he might know where the keys are.  

"Trying to get into this closet. I need a screwdriver to fix my flamethrower but I think Geoff might have baby-proofed the fucking house." What a sentence. Ryan's pretty sure no one has ever said those words in the same combination in the entire history of the planet.  

"You wouldn't happen to know where the keys are?" he asks. He's specifically avoiding looking at the lad's exposed chest. From the corner of his vision he can see that parts of Michael's chest are covered in deep purple bruises, probably from his broken ribs.  

At that thought, he suddenly realizes that he's not wearing a shirt either. Or pants. Or anything except his skivvies. Uh, oops? His face flushes just slightly, and he feels like a guy who showed up to his high school reunion in a cat suit.

Michael's bare torso is a mess of scars and scrapes and bruises, some half-healed and some light but relatively fresh. He seems widely unabashed by his own exposed skin, though, his face only reddening as his eyes adjust to the darkness proper and he realizes Ryan's in just his goddamn underwear.   Michael looks away, ears and cheeks burning with heat, and clears his throat before nodding, "Yeah, probably do. I'll go grab 'em." 

He all but flees in the opposite direction, and it's hard to believe that this easily flustered mess of a kid is also the big bad Wild Child of Los Santos, and one of the most violent terrors in town.  

He digs around in the kitchen's junk drawers before fishing up the keys, and sort of just. Quietly hopes Ryan's fetched some pants or something during the last few minutes. In any case, he makes his way back into the hall to deliver the softly jingling keyring to the Vagabond, his coffee cooling half-forgotten in the mug in his palm.

As soon as Michael turns from him, Ryan ducks back into his room. He grabs the nearest pair of pants he can find and slides them on. He debates also putting on a shirt, but figures that Michael's walking around without one, so putting one on would make him the underdressed one. He shrugs the thought off and pops back out of his room, bumping into the lad and almost making him spill his coffee. 

"Whoops, my bad," he apologizes. He backs away into the hallway til both of them are standing in front of the closet door. If this were a sitcom, a laugh track probably would have played. The meanest, most wanted criminal in the city can't manage to open a shitty wooden closet door without help.  

"So uh, I assume you found the keys?"

Michael gives an oddly Gavin-esque noise as Ryan all but collides into him, barely managing not to spill his coffee and giving a breathy laugh through his nose at the (thankfully at least *semi*-dressed) gent's awkward apology.

He follows Ryan to the closet and gives an expression of mock offense, uncurling his fingers from around the keys and tossing them to Ryan with a whisper of, "Oh, ye of little faith! 'Course I found the fuckin' keys, they were just sitting in the kitchen." 

He sounds awfully smug for having done such a simple task, but when is the merc ever not? He's a horrible loser, sure, but that doesn't make him any less of a sore winner, too.

"Nice. Good job, Michael," Ryan said without a shred of sarcasm. He used the keys to unlock the closet, and the door swung open. Ryan pulled the string of the light, and covered his eyes to avoid being hit by the stunningly bright light. Once the sting goes away, he finds the tool box on the top shelf and grabs a Philips head from the inside of it.  

He turns to leave, only to find Michael still there, causing him to jump slightly. 

"Jesus, you just scared the fuck out of me. I thought you would have wandered off by now. I mean, watching me search for a screwdriver probably isn't the most exciting thing in the world."

Michael's brows fly up at the reaction, his expression torn somewhere between amusement and mild alarm. 

"I was gonna ask if you wanted some coffee, dude, Jesus Christ," he replies, voice tinged with something... defensive? No, not quite. Maybe just disbelieving - he's never known Ryan to be a very jumpy guy, and he just hopped out of his skin because Michael... didn't move at all or do anything whatsoever. 

"The pot's still half full in the kitchen I guess. Knock yourself out," he adds, shrugging and turning as he talks to make the minute trek back to his own bedroom and slip back inside. He leaves the door cracked open, setting his coffee (which has gone cold. Fantastic.) onto his nightstand before flopping back down onto the bed. He's not had his glasses on all morning, and half-hopes he's tired them out enough to fall back asleep again. 

Hey, the poor guy can dream.

Ryan closes the door on the closet, then heads back to his room. The valve issue is a quick fix, just a loose bolt that the screwdriver fixes right up. He fills the tank with the leftover water, and pulls the trigger while pointing it into the glass. It fills right back up, sure enough.  

He carefully places it back in his closet, hiding it behind a stack of old magazines and a set of golf clubs. With nothing left to do, he remembers what the lad had said about coffee. A nice cappuccino would be good right about now.  

Five minutes later, and still no coffee for the Vagabond. He just...couldn't figure out how to get the stupid expensive french press to give him the goddamn coffee. Honestly, this was getting sad. Murdering people? Easy. Stealing literally millions of dollars? No challenge. Opening a closet? Hard. Making a single goddamn cup of coffee? Impossible.

Michael tosses and turns fruitlessly for another half hour, the caffeine from his coffee *finally* taking effect, of fucking *course*. After a while he gives up and just yanks his blanket about his shoulders, sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed and turning on the Xbox across the room.  

He's never far from a controller, and he picks one up now, too lazy and comfortable to put in a new game. So, he resigns himself to playing the absolute worst game possible at six in the morning. 

Bloodborne. A rage-inducing work of art if there ever was one. 

Michael manages to stifle his shouts after his first couple deaths, but an admittedly unfair one has him seething at the TV as quietly as he can manage, voice disbelieving and irate and probably audible since he accidentally left his stupid door cracked open. Smooth as ever, that Michael Jones.

Ryan, even all the way in the kitchen, can hear the lad grumbling and groaning at what is probably some sort of video game. A loudly shouted "Fuck this game!" confirms it in his head to be either Bloodborne or Dark Souls.  

The gent pads down the hallway, french press still in hand, to see why exactly Michael is yelling like a banshee at 6 in the morning. That, and to passive aggressively leave the dumb coffee contraption outside Geoff's door. Just buy a normal coffee pot, goddammit.  

Ryan peers into Michael's room, seeing the lad red in the face with anger. It was almost cute, in some crazy sort of way. He was just about to leave when the lad turned and made eye contact with him. Shit, caught in the act.

Michael's already thrown his controller into the floor and cocooned himself angrily up in the thick blankets of his bed. He's positively fuming, the kill screen of Bloodborne taunting him for the fourth or fifth time already.  

Poor Michael's been stuck on this one goddamn section since long before he got whisked away (read: attacked and kidnapped. Close enough, right?), and doesn't look to be any more pleased with the fact. 

He does catch Ryan peeking in at him and lifts his brows, realizing belatedly that he'd probably been heard snarling at the TV for a while now.  

"Can I help you?" He greets dryly, his frustration at the ridiculously difficult game leaking into his voice.

"Nah, was just, uh, just wondering what you were screaming about. I could hear you all the way in the kitchen. Bloodborne, right? I actually beat the game a while back, I might be able to help you out if you want?" He'd had, well, a lot of free time in the past month. When he wasn't planning, he was holed up in his room playing video games. To be quite honest, the crew hadn't done a real heist since the day Michael got kidnapped.  

The gent didn't want to overstep his boundaries by just inviting himself into the room, but Jesus Christ, if Michael kept yelling so loudly so early in the morning Jack would probably kill them both. And he was still holding this fucking metal piece of garbage.  He leaned over to Geoff's door, and placed it right in front where he would trip over it, and resumed waiting for the lad's response.

Michael's irritation blinks away, replaced with mild surprise. He mouths something like, "You *beat* it?" as Ryan ducks away, but it obviously goes unnoticed. 

The way he wriggles over to make room for Ryan on the end of his bed and extends a still-bare arm out to him to give him the controller does not, though. It's crystal clear what he wants, eyes darting away momentarily to shoot his own TV a malicious looking glare. 

He just wants out of this ridiculous fucking level. That's all. And if it means he has Ryan's company for a while longer than he might have thought then hey, who's complaining? Here's a hint: not fucking Michael. The gent's mere presence has a naturally soothing effect on the oft-angered lad, and even if Michael's already begun to see red, he's not yet so blinded as to see that that isn't something he needs right now.

Ryan settles down, sitting with one leg under him, and takes the controller from Michael. He concentrates for a second, the restarts the game. He basically just runs through the rush of enemies, before bounding past one of the "points of no return" the game was so fond of putting in.  

The boss was really the difficult part of this bit. But, it was no match for the gent's determination, and went down after about 5 solid minutes of button clacking and trigger hammering. The game went black for a second, then Michael's character miraculously appeared in the center of old Yharnam.  

"Tada," the gent deadpanned, gesturing at the screen.

Michael looks positively awestruck. Sure, Ryan skipped out on all of the souls the hordes of enemies had to offer, but he also suffered minimal damage and only had to heal himself *twice*?? That shit's impossible, and Michael exclaims so as the screen fades out of and back into focus. 

"How the *hell* did you *do* that?!" He adds, as though he didn't just witness the entire thing. Any rage he'd had has vanished now, replaced by an incredulous, and almost affronted alarm.

It's just- the level of *skill*- Ryan sucked at this game last time Michael saw him play it! He was *rotten*!!  He opens his mouth as if to say something else, only to close it again. For the first time in a very, very long time, Michael has effectively been made *speechless*. What a day.

"That's about 20 hours of practice for ya. We've had, uh, a lot of downtime recently," the gent explained, smiling inwardly at the fact that Michael seemed completely in awe of what he'd just accomplished.  

"You seem so surprised! I'm not complete garbage at *some* things, you know? I mean, I can't open a door to save my life, but I can do other things pretty well." The gent sort of trailed off there, getting slightly lost in the absolute silence that dominated the room, save for his own babbling.  

He just sort of held the controller out toward the quiet lad, trying to hand back the reins, so to speak.

Michael snorts at the vague mention of Ryan's previous early morning struggles, poking a hand out of his comforter cocoon and taking the controller as it's handed back to him. He looks genuinely thrilled - he finally gets to at least see something *new* in this clusterfuck of a game, thank *God* - and scoffs, "I know you're not garbage at everything, wise ass, but you *used* to be pretty shit at *this* is all I'm saying. Least you shaped up." 

He doesn't comment on the pang of something like regret he feels at the mention of downtime, all too aware of what Ryan really means. He doesn't bring up the quiet hope in the back of his mind that the Vagabond will keep hanging out once the half-blind lad starts his idiotic button mashing again, that he won't just dart off to leave Michael alone in the empty silence. It's less comfortable without the other's presence, somehow.  Shit, and this was the guy Michael was secretly piss-scared of during they're first few months working together. How the tables... y'know.

Ryan debated whether he should stay or not as the lad continued on with his game. Eventually, he decided just to stay and watch. He leans further back on the cushy bed, hand behind him to brace his shoulder upright.  

After just a few minutes of quiet, Ryan glances at Michael's face. It was silhouetted against the skyline outside the window, like a work of art. Something was missing, though... 

Ah, glasses. While the lad was preoccupied, Ryan took a quick glance around, looking for the thin wire frames in the unlit room. He finally saw them on the bedside table, and got up to retrieve them. He put them on, wincing momentarily at the strong prescription before sitting back beside the lad as if nothing had changed.  

"You know, Michael," the Vagabond almost crooned, "I think these would look way better on you than they do on me."

Michael doesn't seem too bothered by Ryan's searching around his room a bit, just thrilled that the gent's apparently decided to make himself at home. He's able to minimize his noises of frustration, only vaguely aware of what the hell Ryan's up to outside the edges of his vision. 

And then the gent's cooing something or other and Michael, ever an easily flustered dork, feels his face color a bit at the words. He barely remembers to pause his game before turning slightly widened eyes to Ryan, his glasses held gingerly in the other man's hand and his statement finally registering with the poor lad. In all honesty, it was the cadence of Ryan's words that really grabbed Michael's attention, and he still looks mildly dazed. 

"I... maybe because they're mine?" He replies stupidly, immediately kicking himself inwardly before lifting his controller up and shrugging, "Bit busy though. Put 'em on me yourself if it makes you so hard." 

Ah, those sweet, elegant, polite mannerisms of Jersey Flirting™. Michael couldn't do much better if he tried, the poor idiot.

Ryan rolled his eyes at Michael's comment, but still smiled. Yep, that was pretty much what he'd expected. If there were any words he would use to describe Michael, "smooth" would not be one of them. Then again, neither was he, so they made quite the pair.  

"Jeez, you make me sound like some sorta weirdo that gets off on glasses," the gent deadpanned. Despite saying that, he gently placed the busted frames on the lad's face. "Might improve your ability to play well, too." 

That last comment would probably get him punched, but it was worth it.

"Hey, I don't kinkshame," Michael responds with mock-innocence. Only after delivering the already expected punch to Ryan's shoulder though, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he grins at the older man. 

"Now sit down doofus, you're messing up my game," Michael chastises, waving Ryan back down beside him as he unpauses Bloodborne and pours his energy into not croaking. He hates to admit it, but his specs do make it considerably easier to discern the colorless enemies from the equally dull background. The game's fun, but it's not exactly pretty, for sure. 

Michael has to stop himself from even thinking some stupid cringy line about *Ryan* being pretty instead, giving himself a quiet, internalized scolding as he makes his own stupid ears turn red.

Ryan sits down again, dutifully following Michael's request. He crosses his legs in front of him, tapping on his shins occasionally. Michael, for all his frustration, was actually pretty good at the game.  

As they sit there in the comfortable silence, Jack walks by the still cracked door on the way to the kitchen. He sees the two, with no shirts on, just sitting there looking at Michael play xbox. He shrugged, then continued on his way. None of his business what they did in their spare time.  

To Michael's credit, after Ryan had cleared that one particularly tough boss, he was almost breezing through the game. Sure, he cursed now and then, but in general, he was doing really well.

Michael's not *bad* by any means (and being able to see properly is probably helping more than a little), but his gameplay notably worsens whenever he's too pissed to function. 

He's up against the next boss in no time, though, carrying all his blood echoes along with him ("I'm not running all the way *back* just to store them, what the fuck?!") as though the stakes weren't high enough. 

He's holding his own though, shifting and leaning and twitching occasionally where he sits as he immerses himself into the game. His tongue is poking out just slightly from between his lips, his focus intense and his fighting... admittedly kind of shoddy against the gargantuan baddie. He's playing for the first time in weeks, though, you gotta cut him some slack. 

He doesn't notice Jack passing glance (and awake of his own accord, if his silence means anything), muttering frustrated swears under his breath towards the end of the boss battle like he verges on actual, literal death. He almost throws his controller as the beast finally goes down, slumping against Ryan with an exasperated but prideful little sigh, "*Jesus* fucking Christ, this is harder than I remember."

"Well, it is meant to be Dark Souls's spiritual successor, so..."   Once again, Ryan finds himself lost for words. His heart skips a couple beats as Michael's skin touches his. The lad is exceedingly warm as he leans against him, most likely from the anger coursing through his veins. Nothing like a little Jersey rage to turn someone into a walking space heater.  

On a whim and before he can stop himself, he leans down and kisses the lad lightly on the temple. Nothing that would make even the most immature 4th grader give a second glance, but for some reason Ryan feels his face start to heat up.

Seems like gradeschoolers and mercs finally had something in common: an inability to express emotions without almost dying.

Michael goes from prideful to beaming in the time it takes Ryan to press his lips lightly against the younger's heated skin. It's most certainly his ever-burning rage that keeps him so warm, and he'll swear by it - he's near constantly an oven because of the fact. 

But right now, the pink hue overtaking his face and shoulders can't be blamed on an imminent temper tantrum, and Michael's awareness of this doesn't exactly help the warmth on his skin to fade. He's glad enough to still have his blankets half-bundled around himself, and he just sort of tilts his head into Ryan's shoulder the smallest bit to hide his stupid grin before letting his lips press once, chastely, against the other man's shoulder. 

He draws back right after like nothing happened and starts to play again, his feigned nonchalance an obvious act, and his shoddy pretending given away by the way his lips twitch on occasion with a barely-repressed grin and how his freckled, scarred, pale skin refuses to abandon its embarrassed, flustering hue.

Ryan, on the other hand, doesn't bother to hide his very obvious grin. Just a single butterfly kiss from the lad was enough to make him smile like an idiot. They really were just a bunch of big man-children, weren't they?  The room was almost silent again, save for the sound of clicking buttons, but it was a good silence. It felt warm and inviting, instead of the cold, tense silences Ryan was used to. It used to be that when he walked into a room, conversations would just freeze in place. That was partly due to the mask, but still.  

Just being here with Michael made him feel like a normal human being. Less a merc and more of just a man. Ryan, not the Vagabond. He didn't know if he would ever be able to express how much that meant.

For Michael, it's just... the ability to be calm.  Ryan always seems to radiate a steady, unending wave of unperturbed energy, the only ripples ever caused triggered by the rare spike of anger or frustration. It's something Michael's always been a secret admirer of, really - he never slips slowly into rage, feels it mounting up steadily inside him. 

No, when Michael gets truly angry, it's like a tidal wave. He's allotted all of three seconds to brace himself before he's blinded by fury and red stars and spots over his vision, his stomach churning and twisting hatefully and his hands curling naturally into fists. 

Saying the lad's got anger issues is putting it gently. 

But it doesn't feel like such a problem with Ryan, the man's general air of stony tranquility an infectious one. The other lads always seem wont to feed Michael's frenzied energy, so it's just... *nice*, to be able to sit with (and maybe lean a bit against) someone who'll let him be calm or frustrated or happy or upset or *anything*. 

Oh, fuck, Michael fucking died while distracting himself with all this. He's still fairly early on in the stage, but gives a seething little sigh anyways, eyes narrowing at the death screen on his TV as it taunts him cruelly.

Oblivious to the thoughts swirling through the lad's head, Ryan just watches as Michael tries the stage again. It was early enough on that he didn't lose much, which was good. Losing later in levels could be a *huge* hassle.  

Not a half second later, the pair hear a door swing open, and then Geoff swearing at a metallic thump. He mumbled a long string of curses to himself before retreating toward the kitchen. There was a pounding noise like someone hammering on a door, then Geoff yelling "Gavin!"  

Geoff probably assumed it was poor Gav that left the coffee press outside his door. Ryan almost felt bad, but then remembered that the squawking moron had sprayed him with a flood of cheap beer and suddenly didn't feel so bad.  

An eye for an eye, he supposed.

Michael takes a moment or two to realize what, exactly, triggered Geoff's early morning swearing spree, and when he finally puts two and two together he glances away from the TV screen to shoot Ryan an almost amazed sort of look.   Granted, he does still look on the verge of a fucking giggle, so he can't be feeling too much pity for the warbling jerkoff getting bitched out down the hall right now, either.  

And hey, if Geoff ends up figuring out it's Ryan at fault (and since Michael will probably be pulled in and labeled guilty by association), it won't exactly be the end of the world. The boss has already proved himself a huge flippin' softie in the last few days, even if accidentally.  So Michael just adjusts his blankets, fluffing them out a bit on one side as though to make room for Ryan if he wants to share their warmth, and gets his head back into the game.

Ryan graciously takes the edge of the blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders. He wasn't exactly cold, but he wasn't going to turn down an opportunity to be closer to Michael.  

It was only maybe 8 in the morning and already this day was shaping up to be pretty good. Ryan had his boy (if he could even call him that yet) next to him, had already gotten Gavin in trouble, and had finally fixed the flamethrower. Today might actually be a close second to yesterday. And yesterday they hijacked a goddamn train, so the bar was almost impossibly high to begin with.  

"I think Geoff's a little bit upset, don't you?" the gent asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

With the other end of the blanket snugly around Ryan's shoulders, Michael feels completely unashamed about leaning into the gent's side entirely, his jaw and cheek resting on his shoulder as he progresses a bit further through the level. 

The sound of Geoff's shouting still trickle in less-than-quietly from down the hall, and Gavin's defensive cries have been added to the mix as well. Michael snorts at Ryan's dry query, pulling an expression of mock surprise, "What, really? D'you think so?" 

His facade collapses into snickers nearly as soon as he's built it up, the lad resting his head back in place again and returning to his aggressive button mashing. As far as he's concerned, his world is limited to these four small walls and the comfort of a violent video game and an even more violent companion.

The feeling of the lad leaning fully against him caused Ryan's face to heat up. For a second, he forgets everything that'd happened before. Forgets that the world outside this exact moment even exists. All that registers in his head is Michael next to him. And it's good, great even.  

We might really have something, Ryan tells himself, and it isn't just adrenaline, or anything like that. This was real. No special circumstances, no fear, just the two of them. This must be how normal people fall in love.  

Well, there it is. The Vagabond finally admits it to himself. The 4 letter word that causes his heart to jump every time he looks at the lad. But, he knew deep down, that he was probably more secure in his feelings. Pining over someone for months tends to have that effect on someone.

Ryan is careful. He's calculated and slow and, even when acting on a dime, always has an air about himself that suggests he knows what he's doing. He doesn't tend to rush into things, usually preferring to have *some* semblance of a plan, if not a completely deconstructable one. 

Michael is rushed. He's impulsive and harried under pressure, an explosion of violent, overactive energy that's near impossible to contain. He rushes into things with only the vaguest idea of what he's doing, throwing his whole self into everything that he does and taking both his victories and defeats very personally. 

So, while Ryan may have been slower on the uptake of his feelings towards Michael, the lad's all but launched himself right into the thick of his own tangle of emotions towards the Vagabond, every new flutter in his chest and flush of his cheeks and shoulders making Michael awash again with affection and adoration as intense as his emotions always tend to be.

Ryan only gets another few seconds of calm before Michael's door is thrown open. He feels a wet slap on the side of his head, almost as if someone had thrown a bundle of coffee soaked paper towels at the Vagabond's face. He picks up the wet bundle, and confirms that that’s what it is.  

There's a quiet noise outside the door that sounds like a raccoon having a fight with a sparrow, and the sound of someone running away. Jesus Christ, Gavin was just on a roll this week. Ryan didn't even get a full hour of downtime before something was already going wrong.  

"I'll be right back, I just have to go kill Gavin real quick," Ryan said to the lad, disentangling himself from the blanket. He looked down the hallway and saw Gavin struggling to call the elevator. As soon as the brit saw him peeking out the door, he took off running to the kitchen.

Michael doesn't protest, flinching ever so slightly as his own face is flecked with loose droplets of coffee. He wipes it off on his blanket and waves Ryan away to do what he's gotta do, cracking a grin and bundling himself back up with a chirp of, "Good luck, Skeletor." 

He can hear Gavin's screeching from down the hall and a muffled thump, snickering to himself as he tries halfheartedly to push his focus back onto Bloodborne. Two deaths and a muffled string of swears into his pillow later, and the lad's shuffling out of his room (with a t-shirt, now that everyone's waking up and wandering about) to dump out his cold coffee and grab a water bottle from the fridge. 

He flops down beside Geoff on the sofa, Gavin's squawks and the occasional burst of deeper laughter still visible from outside. Both the lad and gent on the sofa snort, Geoff clearly not *too* bitter towards Michael about the day prior.

After trying to drag the lad back out from the balcony for the longest time (he might be scrawny, but the lad could really keep a strong grip), Ryan finally managed to get him back inside the apartment. The poor brit had little pieces of wet paper towel all over his face like a bad case of acne.  

Of course, Ryan didn't feel too bad about that, since Gav had kicked him in the face at some point. He finally hefted the lad over his shoulder, as easily as one would lift a small petulant child. Which, coincidentally, is exactly what Gavin was.  

He ducked back through the door, and deposited the kicking and squeaking lad on the couch next to Geoff. He laughed slightly at the indignant expression on both of their faces as he took a seat next to Michael.


	9. a day when you feel better

The four fit a bit snugly on the sofa, but no one's complaining. Michael's just glad to have Geoff acting as a buffer between himself and Gavin's spastic wriggling and whining. The mustachioed gent eventually works a hand back enough to whack Gavin over the head, making the Brit slip into a sulky quiet.   Michael's glad for the TV's white noise droning on over this, sipping from his water and feeling a sudden, abrupt surge of bride as his and Ryan's handiwork from the day prior flashes onto the screen. 

He disregards Geoff's pointed glare, instead glancing to his right and grinning around the mouth of his water bottle at the Vagabond at his side. He lowers the bottle into his lap and replaces the cap loosely then, palms cold and dampened from the condensing moisture clinging onto the plastic. He wipes them thoughtlessly onto his sweatpants, and Gavin finally notices what's on the TV and practically bends himself into a pretzel in his disbelieving excitement ("You guys actually blew up a bloody *train*?!").

Ryan's almost pleased at Gavin's complete disbelief. Geoff and Jack weren't exactly the biggest ego builders about the whole thing, to be quite honest. But, seeing the starry eyed look on the other lad's face makes Ryan all the more proud of what he and Michael had accomplished.  

The news turned their attention from the segment about the train (thankfully the police were lost for leads on who the possible culprits could be), and to another about an incident on the highway. Apparently, some madmen had driven down the 405 lobbing explosives into cars and had caused a seven police car pileup. 

"Huh, I wonder who that could have been," the gent pondered aloud, giving Michael a slight shoulder nudge of acknowledgement. Two news segments about them in one day was quite the accomplishment.

Michael snickers at the sarcastic query and bumps his shoulder back against Ryan's before lifting them both into an innocuous little shrug, "Who knows?"  

The quiet joking between the lad and gent draws a confused little glance from both Geoff and Gavin. The Crew isn't stupid - everyone's noticed the way the Vagabond and Mogar have been in each other's company far more than before Michael's forced bit of leave, and no one really has any clue what to make of it.   Geoff's mostly figured that hey, it was Ryan the one obsessing over getting Michael back for a month on his own, and he was the first familiar face Michael saw after his horrible stay in that hell hole. That shit's gotta mean something to 'em, right? No big deal. 

Which is... close, sure, but not quite right. Michael's not going to say anything if anyone else isn't though, content with the comfortable atmosphere the four gangsters share and with the warmth of Ryan's upper arm pressed ever so lightly against his own.

Ryan notices Geoff and Gavin's shared look of surprise and just looks on at the tv innocently. They seemed not to know about the spree that brought on the train theft in the first place.  

"Oh, that reminds me, did you ever get the Bifta picked up?" Ryan whispers to the lad beside him. If Geoff knew the exact extent of their antics yesterday they were sure to get another earful. So, trading getting reamed out by the boss for looking slightly suspicious was a pretty logical choice.  

The Vagabond had meant to check with the mechanic this morning, but had gotten a little distracted. That was the understatement of the year, but the basic concept was the same.

"Oh, shit," Michael whispers quietly back, glancing over at Ryan with raised brows before worming himself suddenly out from between the two gents. He barks something about the bathroom when Geoff starts to bitch and Gavin begins his warbly whining, and flees as soon as Team G shuts their mouths and concedes that yeah, alright, you can go have a *piss* ("bloody tosser," Gavin will add companionably under his breath). Jones doesn't intend to be gone long, just for enough time to slip into his bedroom, dig up his phone, and call up his mechanic. 

The man on the other end of the line confirms that he'll pick the Bif up before anyone can get to it and Michael relaxes immediately - he doesn't need to have Geoff up his asshole about any other antics, and blowing up a whole squadron of cop cars is more than "mischievous" enough to give the Crew's leader a goddamn aneurysm if he should find out. 

Michael flops back down between Geoff and Ryan on the couch after a fair few minutes, giving Ryan the smallest of nods and returning Geoff's half-irritated, half-friendly banter as he wriggles back onto the sofa and settles down, comfortably content.

Man, this was probably the nicest the crew had ever been to each other. It only took a minor tragedy and some hardcore murder for them to suddenly become even better friends than they had been before.  

Well, at least in the others's case. For Ryan, it wasn't so simple. He was, well, how to put this lightly...completely and totally in love with his coworker. Yeah, that was a pretty accurate was to word it. He was a lovesick fucking fool, and it was probably going to start to show pretty soon. That was kinda how feelings worked.  

But, that was something to worry about later. Way later. As far as it could be put off, in fact. For now, Ryan was just content to be with Michael. And Geoff and Gavin, he supposed.

Michael looks the happiest he's been since even before he got kidnapped, leaning the tiniest bit against Ryan's arm (a movement that, as subtle as it is, doesn't go unnoticed by Geoff on the other side of Michael) as the four Crew members watch the end of the news report. The lad seems content more than anything, pleased to be home and safe (relatively speaking) and back to the mayhem and chaos and fiery bliss of the Fake AH Crew lifestyle. 

And Ryan, surprisingly enough. The gents and lads tend to stick to their own, with Geoff breaching the gap, but never before has Michael really interacted so much with the Vagabond in his life. It's surprising, but not unpleasantly so - the pair is a surprisingly fitting, albeit overly destructive duo, and Michael finds that he likes his and Ryan's dynamic more and more the longer that they interact.

They certainly were a pair, weren't they? The most deadly team in Los Santos. Like Romeo and Juliet, except with less death and more...actually, probably more death, just not on their side.  

The news report ends after the usual "if you have any information on the perpetrator of this crime" nonsense, switching over to a piece on childhood nutrition in schools. Riveting television, that was for sure. Geoff switched off the tv with a sigh. Ryan couldn't remember the last time he seemed pleased with a news report that wasn't about some sort of explosion. Or that one time Gavin had gotten his hand stuck in a vending machine during a heist and the news had played the footage of him flailing around for a week straight.

Michael had ragged on Gavin for *months* for that, torturing the rangy lad by playing the crackled audio of Gavin squawking on loops through the surround-sound speakers of the Crew's lodgings (Geoff half-died laughing every single goddamn time) and taping up picture after picture of the struggling Free up, covering entire *walls* of the shared flat and giving Gavin an aneurysm on sight. 

Gavin never got a chance to get revenge, Michael's absence stealing away any opportunity for a proper prank war. Michael considers his victory a fair one nonetheless, though, and thinks back on his achievements fondly. 

In any case, with the TV off, Gavin's attention is lost and the lad's scrambling off to stick his too-large nose into something else he's not supposed to get involved in, Geoff sighing and lifting himself up to trudge after the idiot he's practically adopted since taking him in from England. It doesn't mean the fatherly man is any gentler to Gavin, but they have their moments, and are (albeit arguably) two of the closest Crew members out of the bunch.

With Geoff and Gavin's quick exodus, it's just Ryan and Michael left alone in the silence. It fills the room like an ever expanding balloon of things that should be said, but won't. Miscommunication was the Fake AH way, and Ryan would be damned if he went against that now. Especially now, when he actually had something to lose.  

That was the only downside, he supposed. He was vulnerable now, if the right people knew exactly where to strike, which was something he wasn't quite used to. He'd always stayed solitary, away from everyone else's business. He had told himself it was to protect them, but really he was just scared. Scared of losing someone he was close to because of what he was. What they were. It was terrifying, even to the scariest motherfucker this side of the desert.  

Man, feelings were weird.

Michael doesn't seem afraid, though. Hell, he actually leans perfectly obviously against Ryan's side and props his feet up on the empty end of the sofa, feigning innocent ignorance of the pressure of his weight on the oft-intimidating gent's arm as he picks up the remote again, flips the TV back on, and starts idly flipping through the channels, making a childish game out of the timing of his channel changes. 

"Disaster strikes when - *fssh* - THE WWE WORLD CHAMPION - *fssh* - finds himself in an enchanting romantic encounter with - *fssh* - the... the President, sir." 

Michael looks half ready to piss himself laughing at these results, snickering and jumping right back into the humorous little exercise. The moment is a domestic one - quietness and crap TV and warmth shared on a cozy, slightly ragged sofa. Michael's at peace for once, pleased enough to stay still and plenty companionable with the company he's got.

"I can't believe I just got wwe-rolled in the comfort of my own home. I thought that was the kind of thing that only happened on the internet." Despite his scathing quips, Ryan actually chuckles at the silly combination of news stories, too. 

"Lovely island getaway- *fssh* -where two clueless dolts- *fssh* -find themselves stuck in the- *fssh* -RING THIS FRIDAY, LIVE ON PAYPERVIEW." 

Goddamnit, that had been so close to something that might have been meaningful and nice. Of course, that irony in itself is enough to send Ryan into a tailspin of laughter, the pair's snickering echoing throughout the now nearly empty penthouse floor. Ryan could hear a muffled shout of "Stop the madness!" from Ray's closed door. This game was getting to be much more fun now that it was annoying the others.

Michael's laughter redoubles at Ryan's cynical complaint, and then at the sound of Ray's shout, his eyes closing entirely as he dissolves into titters. It takes him a good thirty seconds to calm down enough to continue the little game, still giggling out a barely audible, brief string of swears. 

"At seven o'clock last night, our radars picked up on - *fssh* - a dog! It's a dog, Ma! It's - *fssh* - swimming along the entirety of the Amazon River to - *fssh* - RECLAIM HIS TITLE FROM JOHN CENA IN THE WWE SUUUPER SLAAAM!" 

Michael almost falls of the sofa, cackling so hard that tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Ray bursts from his room and launches himself over the back of the couch, yelling all the while. He lands on Michael and rolls with the ornery lad into the floor to wrestle the remote away from him, shouting about "too much power". Michael barely gives up a fight, still wheezing with laughter, and Ray turns the TV off before tossing the remote to Ryan with a solemn expression and fleeing before Michael could get revenge proper.

"Guess I'm the keeper of the remote, now..." Ryan promptly turned the tv back on which prompted a shout of "betrayal! I've been betrayed!" from Ray, as well as the most defeated sigh Ryan had ever heard. And he'd heard many.  

"Well gee, Skipper, I- *fssh* -don't think this is gonna- *fssh* -end up like any of us- *fssh* -expected the results to be." 

Well, it wasn't as funny and grammatically corrected as the fucking masterpiece that Michael had just made, but it was something. Ryan could almost feel tears welling up in his eyes from laughing so hard. He offered a hand to Michael, who was still decompressing from laughter on the floor, helping him back up onto the couch. Ryan looked down at the giggling lad, and felt his heart jump into his throat. Yep, that was a human feeling, alright. The strongest of human feelings, even. What a way to jump back into the land of the living, huh?

Michael's fading giggles redouble yet again at the snicker-worthy line Ryan manages to make, and he's still grinning in the floor like a dope by the time a hand is held out to him. He takes it, of course, his palm slightly softer and cooler than Ryan's, and lets the gent pull him up, his curls sticking up in places and his eyes still crinkled in the corners for the width of his grin. 

"Fucking, incredible," is all he manages to wheeze out, a few snickers between each word. He mimics the phrase Ryan managed, the sentence even more awkward and humorous when strung all together in one go. Michael has to push his glasses up the smallest bit to wipe a tear out of the corner of his eye, giving that warm, shaky little sigh that always accompanies a particularly intense fit of laughter.  

Ray's betrayal and the TV-based game are the furthest things from Michael's mind then, though, as he glances over to find Ryan's piercing blue eyes already on him. The easily flustered lad's ears warm up, the sudden leaping of his heart as unbidden as the warmth in his face.

"So uh, you finally feeling better?" Ryan asks awkwardly, fumbling for the right words. He almost wants to add something about him certainly feeling better now that Michael was back, but decides that that would be way too lame and cringeworthy. That was something that married 20 somethings said to each other after work at their boring desk jobs, not what scary gangsters said to each other.  

He reached forward, sweeping a stray curl out of the lad's eyes. He could feel his face heating up, probably getting really, obviously red. Curse this pale complexioned life he was cursed to live.  

Ryan was vaguely aware of some commotion from Ray's room, but couldn't really focus on it. All he could think about was how nice Michael looked in this light, and how funny he was, and how good of a driver he was, and goddamnit, these thoughts were becoming really, really common now.

Michael's not much better off. All he can focus on is how gentle Ryan's hand is as it sweeps his curls out of his face, and how warm the man's eyes look when they fall on Michael - as opposed to their cold, detached appearance during heists and robberies and murders, the difference a truly stark and bone-chilling (and, for Michael, vaguely flattering) one. 

"Yeah, definitely," the lad replies, voice slightly more subdued from its usual too-loud, scratchy-throated volume. He's too focused on the red tint dusting itself over Ryan's face, and how nice it looks in contrast with his eyes, and how Michael's sure his own freckled cheeks are just as warm but he can't seem to find enough of a fuck to give to be as embarrassed as he probably should.  

Something's happening in Ray's room or some place, but Michael's entire world seems abruptly to have shrunk down to himself, Ryan, and the half-broken little sofa they share, the distance between them seeming suddenly too significant and Michael, the flustered little thing, finds himself wanting nothing more than to close it, and Ryan is just... right there. So close, less than a foot away, but the lad is nervous and flustered and too afraid of messing up, of moving too fast, because isn't that what he always does?

Ryan can barely stand the distance between them, and he can feel himself start to gravitate slowly close to the lad. All he can think about is how much he just wants to lean forward and kiss the lad. But, that would be way too fast, right? Ryan's had weeks to pine and feel so many things that he wanted to block out, but for Michael this was all so very new.  

It was ironic, really. Los Santos' most wanted killers were deathly afraid of things normal people experienced every day of their lives. The normal was their abnormal, their insane, even. Holy shit, he was really just thinking of anything to keep himself from doing what he'd wanted to do last night in the tunnel.  

"Michael, can I ask you something?" It was funny how he could pretend to have a conversation with someone three inches away from him.

Michael can barely hear Ryan over the sound of his own pulse in his ears, the thumping of his heart seeming to leap up into his throat as Ryan shifts forwards, inch by inch. It's enough to encourage Michael to do the same, tit for tat, and when the gent stops, so does the lad, unsure and ruddy-faced and dangerously hopeful. 

The question seems almost to surprise Michael, whose warm brown eyes have to blink a few times before it sinks in proper what Ryan said. His response is prompt, then, delivered without hesitation, "Yeah, 'course you can." 

It's a sign of trust, subtle as it may be, that Michael doesn't question Ryan first before agreeing to answer whatever mysterious query he has. Michael might have found a way to worm out of the obligation of answering before he was nicked, back before he and Ryan seemed to have suddenly become attached at the hip, but with Michael's return came a new outlook on the lives of the Fake AH Crew's members - *especially* Ryan Haywood's.

Hearing Michael's voice so close to him is enough to galvanize him to actually ask what's on his mind. That is, if his voice will let him. It seems to be caught in his chest for the moment, before he manages to free it from it's self-constrained prison.   "Can I...can I kiss you?" There's a split second where Ryan wants to take it back, not because he didn't mean it, but because he's afraid it'll mess up everything he'd hoped so hard for. What if they were on different pages, or Michael wanted to take it slow, or any other number of unknown possibilities and variables? Fuck, he'd probably just ruined everything.  

Or, maybe not. Michael hadn't winced away, at least not yet. In fact, maybe Ryan was imagining it, but was he getting closer?

Michael hasn't been asked to be kissed since middle school. It might make him laugh, if it weren't obviously such a valid concern for Ryan that the lad would refuse. Michael just lets the corners of his mouth turn upwards after a moment or two and leans forwards, spurred on by the wave of affection the other man's awkward dorkiness brought with it. 

"Don't ask stupid questions, idiot," he murmurs just before his lips meet Ryan's, gentle and languid and content with the slow shift they settle into. Michael's forced to stretch up a bit to meet Ryan's mouth, being several inches shorter than the gent, but he doesn't seem wont to complain as his eyes slip closed and his lashes splay out over red, flushed cheeks.  It's cliché and, to any other Crew member, laughable, but this one gentle, tentative kiss with Ryan makes Michael's heart race like rampaging through the city and even blowing up a train fails to do, the fluttering in his stomach lacing a unique quality into his thrilled little adrenaline rush.

Ryan's heart races, almost threatening to beat right out of his chest. Holy shit, this was fantastic. When the two finally break apart, he can't help but smile, even chuckling a little bit. That had been everything he'd hoped and more. Even the tiny voice of doubt in the back of his head was silent, simply not a factor anymore in the grand scheme of things.  

There was a golden second, where everything just felt right. This was what life was supposed to be like. Just being with somebody that made you feel like you were constantly on an adrenaline high. And that was what Michael was for Ryan.  

And then there was an awkward cough, and Ryan looked over to see Ray standing there, a forlorn looking super soaker in his hand that was dripping water all over the floor. What was everyone's fascination with water guns in this house?

Michael feels sky-high by the time the pair pulls apart, the lad practically glowing. 

Right up until Ray makes himself known, at which point Michael feels abruptly cold because there's no fucking way this can go well. God, beyond the inevitable, *endless* teasing, there could be potential consequences for dating co-workers - it's obviously never been much of a problem between the Crew boys before, but clearly Ryan and Michael are fans of breaking the mold. 

"Um," is all the usually chatty, auburn hair lad can manage, his face an embarrassingly bright shade of crimson and his shoulders lifted slightly as though he's hoping to recede into himself like a turtle into its shell.

"Dude, if you woulda told me you wanted to make out on the couch I would've just waited 'til later to bring out the big guns." Ray shrugged, seemingly completely sincere. He was kinda the king of the "go with the flow" types, so that was to be expected. 

"So you're not, like, upset?" Ryan tried to get a read on the situation. On one hand, he could just be acting cool to tattle to Geoff later, but on the other hand he could actually be cool with it. Ryan hoped to god it was the latter. 

"Why would I be upset? Geoff's brought home a couple dudes after late night bar crawls, it's not like I'm not used to dealing with this kinda thing. And it's not like any of us are gonna be assholes about it, either. We're gonna support you no matter what, that's how the Fakes roll."

Michael looks... surprised, actually. And vaguely relieved. He glances at Ryan, feeling a sudden loosening of the tightness in his chest that he hadn't fully recognized was there. The Crew will probably still tease, sure, but at least none of them will judge, which Michael feels sort of bad for even considering as a legitimate possibility. The Fakes are a family, they'd never reject Ryan and Michael just for loving each other. 

Michael feels his chest abruptly tense up again as he realizes that that's exactly what this is. This is him loving Ryan, and possibly the gent loving him back, and both men finally being self-aware enough to recognize and express it, and it leaves Michael mildly dazed for a good second or two. 

And then he's being blasted in the face by Ray's water gun, who apparently decides that that's enough seriousness, thanks much. Jones is quick to scramble over the back of the couch with fire in his eyes and not a second thought, launching himself for Ray. The Puerto Rican lad is immediately shooting off down the hall, a distant thump and sounds of a scuffle signifying when Michael tackles Ray and wrestles the water gun away from him. He drenches Ray before allowing Brownman to concede, reemerging soaked and grinning from the hall again.  Victory is Mogar's. Victory is *always* Mogar's.

Ryan, who'd bolted from the couch the second he got hit with water, stood laughing as Michael returned victorious from his and Ray's battle. The watery wounds of war all too apparent in the fact that they were both covered in splotches of soaked fabric. Damn Ray, and his insane accuracy with any weapon he deigned to pick up.  

He had to admit, hearing Ray's little speech had been pretty reassuring. He hadn't so much been afraid that they crew would disapprove, they were both adults that could make their own decisions after all, but moreso that they would see his and Michael's dalliance as a liability. Something that could be used against them in an emergency.  

But, when he looked in Michael's warm brown eyes that just seemed to radiate courage, he knew everything would be alright. He wasn't at all hesitant to use the "L" word to describe how he felt. He loved Michael. Completely and totally. And that wasn't something he was so willing to give up.  

"Nice job, Mogar. The victory is ours once again."

Michael beams at Ryan and, feeling a beautiful blend of only the choicest emotions (fond and endeared and affectionate and *thrilled* because everything is okay and Michael *loves* Ryan), replies with a determined and self-assured, "Damn fucking right it is, Skeletor." 

Feeling giddy and stupid and happy, it doesn't take too long for a still-dripping Michael to pad over to the couch and curl his fingers into the front of the taller man's soaked shirt. He doesn't do anything but grin before he's pulling Ryan down into another kiss, his smile still present in the brief press of lips.   Brief because they're both still soaked to the skin and Michael doesn't want to get his ass reamed any further by Geoff's ceaseless bitching. 

"We need to dry off now, and probably change," Michael says, resting his chin on Ryan's chest and looking up at him, as casually as though they were shaking hands and discussing the weather. The lad seems emboldened by the blatant expression of affection by both parties, his eyes touched with warmth from his one-dimpled grin and his arms looping loosely around Ryan's middle. The lad's punchdrunk on love, awash suddenly with affection he didn't even realize he'd been stifling.

"Yeah, probably should. No way am I taking the blame for another water incident, Geoff will yell at me until the end of my days upon this earth. And then he'll follow me into Hell and continue to yell at me even then." 

Ryan laughed at his own stupid quip, already brightening just from having Michael so close to him. The lad was happier than Ryan had ever seen him before. Happier than even Riot Punch nights could even attempt to make him. And that was really saying something, that punch was stronger than anything Ryan had ever seen. He almost felt like he should take that as a compliment. Ryan the "Better than Riot Punch" Guy. Yeah, he liked the sound of that.  

He ran a hand through Michael's hair before giving him a quick kiss on the forehead. No need to hide what was obvious anymore. Love was hard to hide, anyway. It wormed its way into every fiber of your being until you just felt good all the time.

And feel good Michael does, his smile widening to show the whites of his teeth as Ryan ducks down to kiss his forehead, the gent's hand warm and gentle in his untamed mess of hair. His chest feels ridiculously warm and he very much doesn't want to move, preferring instead to bury his face (downright cutely, but he'll beat the shit out of anyone who dares say so) into Ryan's chest and lean into his warmth. He snickers at the gent's goofy joke, his own words muffled but still just audible enough as he half-jokes, half-sighs in reply, "Yeah, well, guess you'll have to deal with it, 'cause I don't want to move now." 

Michael lets a few seconds pass before adding mischievously, "Besides, I dumped the rest of the water out on Ray, so he looks way worse than we do and will get most of Geoff's temper tantrum." 

This is the devious, dorky asshole of a lad that Ryan has somehow fallen in love with.

"Clever lad. Ray was the one to start things anyway. He should know to never go against another Fake when one of Geoff's temper tantrums was on the line. Or was that death and a Sicilian?"   

Ryan put his arms around Michael, lifting him slightly off the ground. Sometimes he forgot how tall he was. Not like it was hard, the lad was extremely light. Probably had to do with his tiny frame. Pintsized powerhouse, that Mogar. Not that anyone would call him that to his face. No sir, that's a one way street to pound town. The hurt kind, not the other kind.  

"Sorry, dumb joke. For some reason I'm full of 'em today. Must be something in the air."

Michael snickers at the silly reference, his arms shifting to rest around Ryan's shoulders as he's lifted right up off of the ground. It's common enough for the taller members of the Crew to tease Michael about his height - Gavin especially, since they're close enough for the bratty Brit to get away with it - but it's still mildly embarrassing whenever someone's able to pick the Jersey Boy right up off the ground, easy as anything. Michael can't do much but cling to the back of Ryan's shirt and bump his forehead lightly against the gent's, faking a scowl. 

"Must be your stupid sense of humor, more like. Care to put me back down?" Michael teases, the request not one he expects to be taken remotely seriously. Every time he's asked that to a Crew member who's picked him up, he's found himself sat up on (or thrown over that one time with Geoff) shoulders or lifted up even higher in some way or another. He stopped throwing tantrums about it after the first few occasions, resigning himself to his fate as the smallest member of this family of criminally insane jerkoffs.

"Hmm, let me think about it...nope. You're too mean when you have your feet on the ground." Ryan just smiled at him innocently. "Alright, c'mon. You gotta put on some dry clothes. Or at least some slightly less damp clothes."  

Ryan hoists Michael up more, practically tossing him over his shoulder. He made sure not to hold him too hard, still worried about his busted ribs. He carried him all the way back to his room and set him down gently in the doorway.  

"Dry clothes. Please. To avoid a Ramsey fit." Ah yes, the bargaining stage of the "please help me avoid getting chewed out by our extremely touchy and loud bossman" scale. Ryan looked down at Michael almost pleadingly.

Michael rolls his eyes dramatically as Ryan gives him the innocent smile, actually making a strangled sort of yelping noise as he's hoisted half-over the gent's shoulder and toted down the hall. Thank God for Gavin's absence, Michael would never hear the fucking end of this shit. 

He does have to concede once his feet are back on the ground and Ryan is giving him what is essentially a puppy dog face, the simply phrased request combined with the pleading cadence more than enough to tug at Michael's heartstrings.  The lad's a fucking sap. He sighs, and pats Ryan's cheek with another brief eye-roll, "Alright, alright, don't go soft on me, Skeletor. I'll change."

"I'm not going soft. I'm a hardened criminal, Michael, I don't just get soft like a bagel in the microwave." Ryan gave him an amused look, before turning to go change his own soaked shirt.  

He just popped into his closet real quick, pulling out a plain black t-shirt. Standard fare for him. He really only wore the same kind of shirt in different colors. Hey, they were useful and comfortable. And they didn't hold bloodstains, which was a huge bonus.  

He left his room again, this time bedecked in a shirt that wasn't covered in water. Michael wasn't quite done changing yet, might as well get something to eat, right? He thought so at least, striding over to the kitchen to raid the refrigerator.

Michael takes a while longer because he dissolves into laughter at Ryan's stupid analogy, closing his bedroom door and only barely muffling his tittering. He figures he'll stick to comfortable clothes, and just pulls on some dry jeans and a well-worn, years-old Banjo Kazooie t-shirt. It looks surprisingly casual - if Michael were to go out in public right now, no one would recognize him as Mogar, the terrifying Wild Child of Los Santos. 

He reemerges to the faint, indiscernible smell of cooking food, and immediately pads over to the kitchen, poking his head around the corner to peer in at Ryan and quip downright innocently, "Whatcha got?"

"Mac n cheese. A special kind Ray taught me to make. It's got like, adobo in it, and that's supposed to make it taste good." Ryan shrugged.  

"Here, have a bowl." He spooned some of the gooey stuff into a bowl, and handed it to Michael. "It'll be good for your bones. Lots of calcium. I guess. I'm a mercenary, not a bone doctor." 

Ryan spooned some of the mix into a bowl for himself, grabbing two forks from the drawer. He handed one to Michael with an offhand "bon apetite". One bite, and he immediately regretted it. Holy shit this tasted terrible. He'd been swaferdonked yet again by one of Ray's ruses. Either that or he was just a shitty cook.

Michael looks mildly wary the moment Ray's name drops from Ryan's mouth. The Puerto Rican lad's recipes are always either awful or wonderful - there's no in between, and it differs from person to person, so you never know what you're in for. 

Ray's food is basically Russian Roulette with your taste buds. It's a good thing Michael likes to take risks, or he wouldn't bother accepting the bowl Ryan hands him at all. 

The way the gent's nose crinkles at his own cooking isn't the most comforting thing in the world, but Michael just hoists himself up onto an empty bit of counterspace and holds his food in his lap. He takes a bite, chews it a few times, and then... takes another, giving a tiny nod. He's either trying really hard to be polite about Ryan's cooking, or genuinely likes that mess of a meal - either is equally (un)likely, and it's pretty much impossible to tell which way.

"I'm gonna send Ray one of those fucking glitter bombs, I swear to god. This is horrible, even for my cooking's standards." Ryan looked over at Michael, seeing the lad actually chowing down on the orange mess. Holy shit, the lad must have a stomach made of steel. Iron at the very least.  

Ryan averts his eyes, not wanting to make it look like he was creepily staring. Which, he kinda was. But still, couldn't hurt to cover that little fact up.  

He puts his bowl on the counter and pushes it away in disgust. No way he was gonna finish that. It was a new low, finally eclipsing that time he'd accidentally had a pumpkin pie spontaneously combust in the oven while it was cooking. They still had no idea what had caused it.

Michael lifts a brow at Ryan's rejection of the mac'n'cheese, pausing his own chewing to look thoughtfully down at the gent's still mostly full bowl. Before Ryan can talk him out of it, Michael tips the other man's abandoned food into his own bowl before leaning over to set it into the seat. He resumes eating as casually as anything, giving Ryan a small shrug at the other man's expression and swallowing before saying simply, "It's alright." 

Stomach. Of. Steel. The lad looks downright pleased with himself at being able to enjoy the food that broke the Vagabond too, taking another bite with a smug little grin.

Ryan has to admit, he's a little impressed by the fact that Michael can stomach the stuff without keeling over. It was like seeing those flame-breathing circus performers mid act.  

Ryan takes a second to put the dishes in the sink and fill them up with water. When he turns back, he sees Ray back in the hallway, using a roll of paper towels to clean up the water puddle. Like, an entire roll, just thrown onto the puddle. Goddamnit, did anyone in this house know how to do anything other than murder and drive cars? That question might be slightly hypocritical, but still.

Michael snorts as Ray drops the roll of paper towels onto the small flood in the hallway, the Puerto Rican lad's face as deadpanned and flat as ever. He looks up at the sound of Jones' snickering, cracking a grin as Michael gives him a thumbs up. 

Absolute *children*, the whole lot of them. 

Michael's grin drops slightly as Geoff's door swings open, though, and he practically buries himself back into his bowl of mac'n'cheese as the gang boss blows his lid at the sight of the soaked wood-panel flooring. He glances at Ryan, both men dry and innocuous enough in the kitchen, but Michael mouthing (only half-jokingly) to the gent despite that, "Should we evac the apartment, or...?"

Ryan mouths back silently, "Yeah I think so." He tries to slowly shuffle past Geoff's frame of vision to the door that was ever so close to the kitchen. Fakes were like T-rexs, they couldn't see you if you weren't moving.  

They almost make it before Geoff spins to face them with look that could kill, or at the very least maim.  

Before he can start yelling more, Ryan books it the last 20 feet to the door, escorting the lad in and pushing the button for the elevator. It closes with surprising speed, and just a slight jolt as it descends the floors down to the garage.  

"Flawless escape, yeah? No problems at all."

Michael creeps along right behind Ryan as they slip out of the kitchen, giving a Gavin-worthy squawk when Geoff spins around and pins the guilty-looking pair with a downright deadly look. It's only the press of Ryan's hand against the small of his back that gets the frozen-in-place Michael moving again, both gangsters relaxing the moment the elevator doors shut solidly behind them. Michael gives a puff of relieved laughter once the floor begins to shift and the elevator lowers. 

"Hundred percent fucking *perfect*," Michael confirms, leaning against the back wall of the elevator and grinning at Ryan. He looks at ease, albeit slightly less than ready for the day with his mussed curls and rumpled clothing. It makes him look casual - "normal", even, despite the fact that normal for most people is the abnormal for Fakes.

Ryan takes a second to actually realize what they look like. To anyone outside the crew, they'd just look like two everyday guys. No facepaint, no masks, not even cool leather jackets. Huh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it ends on such a weird cliffhanger, that's just kinda where the RP ended, so. hope you enjoyed it anyway, though


End file.
